Dreams of Yesterday
by wbss21
Summary: Slight rewrite of end of chapter 21 guys.  Check it out.    Beginning directly where we left him in "The Dark Knight", the Joker's journey through Gotham's legal system, and eventually Arkham Asylum, where supposedly they give as good as he does.
1. Chapter 1

**Dreams of Yesterday**

**Chapter 1:**

He'd laughed madly, watching as Batman melted away, in to the dark beyond, gone completely as he found himself surrounded by a SWAT team, their guns trained on him, their eyes nervous.

And he laughed harder, swinging aimlessly upside down, the cord holding him constricting painfully around his ankle, 30 stories up, the blood having already rushed to his head.

The men eyed him apprehensively as he created his own momentum, drifting to and back from the safety of the Pruitt building.

"We need to get him down from there." One of them spoke.

Others nodded their agreement.

"All units converge. We have confirmation of suspect. 31st floor, Pruitt building. Backup requested." The first spoke in to his radio.

It was only minutes before a dozen more SWAT members appeared.

He could see the hesitation in the way they moved towards him.

They were scared, and it made him laugh all the more.

"You're the ones with the guns boys." He smirked.

They didn't respond to him.

"Alright. Smith, Anderson, help me here."

The men nodded, holstering their weapons and moving forward.

The Joker had stopped his swinging by then, wanting to make them work for their prize. And they reached out to him precariously, glancing down anxiously to the street below, the height dizzying.

"Careful boysss. Wouldn't want to _slip_." He chuckled, fixing his gaze pointedly on one of the men whose hands visibly shook.

Stretching out, they were finally able to reach him, taking hold of his jacket's lapels and pulling him back towards them. He whooped and hollered, swinging his arms as he was dragged through the blowing wind.

They were anything but gentle in cutting him down, severing the cord with a pair of steel cutters and letting him fall freely to the hard concrete of the floor.

He continued to giggle maniacally as he hit, his face lying flat against the ground, the cuts along his right cheek stinging with the dust there.

He didn't have a chance to move as felt himself being pressed down at the back of the neck by someone's foot, followed seconds later by his arms being wrenched behind him, a pair of handcuffs slapped tightly over his wrists.

His mirth continued as he was then dragged up by the collar of his coat, to his feet and shoved forward.

"Move clown!" One of them spit, and he complied, a tremor running silently through his frame with his hysterics.

"Might want to check my, uh, my pockets officerrrs." He spoke as they moved forward. "Wouldn't want any unpleasant surprisesss, hmm?"

"Shut up!"

He was pushed hard from behind, causing him to stumble.

He giggled.

"Jamison! Check his pockets!"

The Joker rolled his eyes as he was frisked roughly.

They pulled half a dozen knifes from his clothing, confiscating them in to a plastic bag before feeling satisfied to proceed.

He didn't struggle in the least as he was taken down on one of the building's lifts and led out on to the street, to one of the SWAT vans, waiting with it's back open.

They helped him step up in to it, where his custody was handed off to more SWAT members, who handled him inside, forcing him to sit on one of the vehicles benches.

The doors slammed hard, the three officers in back sitting opposite the Joker, their guns held at the ready.

He smiled at them faintly and they averted their gaze to the floor.

Someone slapped the back of the van and moments later the engine started, the entourage heading off towards County.

/

They undid his cuffs, pushing him forward in to the holding cell and slamming it shut.

They'd taken his jacket and coat, and had all information on him, or lack thereof, faxed over from what was left of MCU. They didn't want to waste any time in getting him locked up.

For the moment, they had him placed in a holding cell, locating in the processing area.

There were others in the cell with him, most his own men, mulling about, standing back from him, some fighting with each other, mostly one of his with some other prisoner not associated.

He rolled his eyes, walking to the cell's bench and sitting.

The SWAT team had handed him off to GCPD uniforms once they'd reached County, and they now paced restlessly back and forth before the cage, looking anxious.

They were waiting for Commissioner Gordon.

So they could process him properly.

The Joker stared ahead past them, focusing on the wall beyond, his thoughts racing.

He had no plan of escape this time.

Not that it mattered to him.

He would find a way out, eventually.

He always had.

His mind went to Batman, to how absolutely exhausted he had looked before he left, the expression of disbelief and resignation on his face as he was told what the Joker had done to Dent.

It made him smile.

He knew the vigilante had no doubt gone off to try and _save_ the man.

"_Too late_." He thought.

Harvey Dent had been pushed well off the deep end, and as he'd told Batman, it hadn't even been hard. All it took was an ability to see in to what drove the man to his actions, what his real motivation was, beyond what he presented to the public.

That had always been something the Joker was very good at. Seeing in to what made other's tick, in to who they were beneath the surface, beneath the mask they wore for the world.

All it had taken from there was the right kind of pressure, placed on all the right spots, to make those motivations crumble to dust and blow away in the wind, replaced by hopelessness and despair, replaced by the reality of the world, by all it's great sadness and indiscriminant cruelty.

And Harvey had broken, like some fragile, porcelain doll.

The Joker listened carefully to what went on around him, overhearing the officers speaking of a "situation" transpiring at 250 52nd Street.

He knew it was Dent, doubtlessly gone after Gordon's family. He knew, out of everyone, the man Harvey most blamed for his loses had been Gordon. He'd made sure to reinforce that assignment of blame when he'd paid him the visit at Gotham General.

Having a singular point of focus when looking for a scapegoat was always appealing, and for someone as one tracked in their mind as Harvey was, it would be even more so.

Like he'd said; easy.

Batman had gone off to save them all.

The Joker wondered whether he'd reach them in time.

He hoped he wouldn't.

Not that it would matter. Dent's reputation was already destroyed. He'd already killed 5 people.

When the public found that out, it would be all over for this city.

"Sir!" One of the officers came jogging out from an adjacent room, holding a radio receiver, looking panicked. "Gordon just called in. He says Batman killed Dent! And the five others found this afternoon!"

The Joker's eyes went momentarily wide, staring hard at the rookie, than moving to look at his superior.

"What?"

The rookie nodded.

"Orders just came over the radio. We're to dispatch ten units, in pursuit of him now!"

The Joker stood, walking to the bars.

The superior officers looked nervous, glancing over to him before again looking back to the rookie.

"Alright." He said, running his hands through his hair, exasperated. "Where?"

"He was seen fleeing 250 52nd."

The officer nodded.

"Alright. You heard the man! All available units, converge. 250 52nd Street. Now! You, you and you!" He pointed to three officers. "Stay here! _Watch _the prisoner! And _do not_ engage him."

Chaos seemed to erupt around the precinct, men in uniform running back and forth, forming in to groups and gathering together all necessary equipment.

In a matter of minutes, the place had emptied out, save for the three officers left behind and those in the holding cell.

The Joker's lip curled to the side, and he rolled his eyes up before smirking, turning back from the bars, towards the bench again and sitting.

So _that's_ how it was.

_That's_ how the Bat had decided he was going to win.

By taking the fall for Dent.

"_Cute_." He thought.

He and Gordon must have devised it together, hoping to save the citizens of Gotham from the bleak reality of their situation.

But false hope was just that. _False_.

It would only hold up so long before the truth came out.

And then it would only be _worse_.

The Joker could feel his smirk broaden to a smile.

As it was, until then, he'd been proven right on another point all together.

They were all turning on the crusader now, weren't they? Eager to assign him blame, to believe him responsible for all _their _problems. Just like he'd known they would, the moment they felt he'd outlived his usefulness.

Jesus, these people were too easy.

/

It would be three hours before Gordon arrived, scores of police officers coming in ahead of and behind him.

Empty handed.

Of course.

They'd never catch Batman.

Gordon wouldn't _let_ them.

The Joker fixed his gaze on the newly appointed Commissioner, his expression unreadable.

Gordon glanced at him, his own face showing disappointment, before calling one of his detectives over.

"Has he been processed yet?" He asked.

The detective shook his head.

"No Sir. Not yet. We were waiting on you."

The Commissioner sighed deeply.

"Well let's get to it then. Wilks, Smith, Berg, with me. We'll get him cleaned up first, than go from there."

The Joker remained seated as they entered the cell, yelling for all the other prisoners to stand back before moving towards him. Two of the officers grabbed him roughly under the arms and forced him to his feet as Gordon stood by, then pulled his hands forward and cuffed his wrists together.

The Commissioner nodded silently in the direction of the showers, than walked forward, beckoning for them to follow, which they did, pushing the Joker from behind.

The showers they used for processing weren't far, just down a corridor leading off the main holding area and through a door on the right.

The Joker was shoved in to the tiled room.

The floor was wet and the place smelled of chlorine, the walls a dirtied white color. Plain looking shower heads lined along the ceiling at the room's farthest wall from the entrance.

One of the officers undid the Joker's cuffs roughly, pocking the restraints and, again, he was pushed forward.

"Strip, douche bag!" He spit.

The Joker's eyes roamed along the space, his head tilted slightly back as he observed the shower heads, dripping water in small but steady amounts.

"And don't even think about trying anything. I promise you, you fuck! We won't hesitate to shoot your ass."

The Joker spun around to face the foul mouthed policeman.

He grinned lopsided.

"No need for that kind of language officeeer." He said. "It comes across as, uh, desperate. Hmm?"

The officer's face twisted in a scowl.

"Just get em' off clown boy!" He barked.

The Joker's eyes drifted to Gordon then, who stood back, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the whole affair intently.

"So, uh, Commissioneeer!" The Joker addressed him. "The Batman… he… _got away_, hmm?"

Gordon glared at him with clear disgust.

"Take your cloths off." He spoke calmly. "Or we'll do it for you."

The Joker shrugged, bringing his hands to his vest and slowly undoing the buttons.

"I have to say, you're, uh, you're inflating my egooo." He grinned. "It's not _every _prisoner whose processing is overseen by the Commissioner himselfff, hmm?"

Gordon didn't respond.

Apparently, the Joker was moving too slowly for the officers liking, as in the next instant they came at him, hard, shoving him against the wall, three sets of hands grabbing at him, pulling his cloths off.

Normally, Gordon would have scolded his officer's for breaking procedure, but he allowed his hatred for the Joker to get the better of him and he stood by passively, watching as the three men roughly removed the madman's clothing.

Within the minute, they had him stripped naked, tossing the discarded garments aside.

Two of the men held either of his arms as the third man went to the shower handles and turned the water on high.

Hot water came gushing out of the heads, falling hard on the Joker and officers alike.

The third officer came in then with a rough cloth and soap in hand, approaching with noticeable apprehension.

The Joker was laughing raucously, and his hysterics only intensified as the lathered cloth was placed against his face and drug harshly across his skin in an attempt to wash away the grease paint.

Gordon could feel his body tense as he watched.

The Joker was like some kind of wild animal, completely uncontrolled and uninhibited.

As his eyes ran over the lunatic's lithe form, he couldn't help but notice the vast amounts of scar tissue and ugly lacerations marring the pale skin, running from his torso all the way down, to his hips and thighs.

He looked like he'd played the part of someone's personal stress reliever. He was _covered_ in scars and deep bruises, some fading, yellow and green, others as fresh as the day, dark blue and purple.

Whatever the case, he'd been through incredible amounts of abuse, it was obvious. Whether that abuse was self-inflicted or dealt out by another, the Commissioner didn't know.

He wasn't sure he _wanted_ to know.

His gaze traveled to the Joker's face, taking note that his officer had finally wiped him clean of the paint.

Gordon found himself taken aback by how _young_ the madman looked. The Commissioner estimated he couldn't have been older then 30, probably younger. 26, 27 maybe.

And he was perfectly handsome, save for the grotesque lacerations running up from either corer of his mouth, pulling his lips in to a permanent grin.

These scars were perhaps as ugly as any of the other, larger ones on the man's thin frame, ragged and torn looking.

Whatever had caused them, it hadn't been a straight blade. They were far too uneven and gnarled for that. Maybe a piece of broken glass, or a serrated edge of some kind, Gordon thought morbidly.

The green color in his hair had started to come out, dripping off the ends of it, obviously some sort of cheap, non-permanent dye, revealing his natural color beneath, a dark blonde, almost brown.

It was only after being caught in a kind of trance, staring at this good looking, young man, who without the scars marring his body and features, you never would guess was a complete psychopath, that Gordon became aware of the Joker staring with equal intent, back at him.

The Commissioner averted his eyes then, to the floor, clearing his throat awkwardly.

The Joker smirked at the reaction.

At that point, they'd begun scrubbing his entire body down, holding his arms out in front of him, running the soap and cloth none-too gently over the limbs before moving impatiently to his chest and stomach, then his back before going over his thighs and calves.

The entire time, the officer doing the cleaning held a look of absolute repulsion, clearly not enjoying himself.

The Joker glanced down at him, smiling widely.

"Be thorough now Officer, uh, _Berg_." He chuckled. "Can't have you missing a ssspooot."

The man's mouth formed in to an even more pronounced frown, his pace suddenly quickening, just wanting to be done with it as fast as was possible.

To be away from this _maniac_.

And so it wasn't long after when he finished, drying the Joker quickly and taking him from the showers, in to another room adjacent to it.

"Bend over." Wilks bellowed. "Touch your fingers to your toes."

The Joker complied without complaint.

A moment later and they were performing a cavity search, the men having donned latex gloves, two of them spreading the Joker's glutes harshly, the other performing the search.

The Joker remained silent the whole time, and seconds later, when they were satisfied he had no weapons or tools concealed there, they stood him straight, removing their gloves.

They each went to a basin and washed their hands with soap and water.

"Open your mouth. Wide." He was ordered, quickly following.

He smirked before complying, the action causing his scars to stretch and pull oddly up his cheeks, momentarily catching the policemen's attention.

They finally tore their eyes from the sight, one of the men flashing a small light in to the madman's mouth, sticking the fingers of his free hand in to feel up along his gums.

The Joker's teeth were rotten, the officer noted, his own mouth twisting in disgust at the stained, yellowed bone. He didn't think the lunatic had ever brushed them in his life.

"Stick out your tongue." He said.

The Joker did, and the man pushed his index finger and thumb beneath the wet, pink muscle.

There was nothing there, and so he pulled his hand free, silently thanking God that his fingers hadn't been bitten off.

"Here." Gordon stepped in then, holding a pair of orange, prison uniform overalls, along with underwear, an undershirt and canvas, rubber soled shoes. "Get dressed."

The Joker took them from him, staring down at the Commissioner with clear amusement in his eyes.

"Whatever you say, Commmissionerrrr." He grinned.

Gordon looked quickly away, stepping back and watching askance as their prisoner pulled first the underwear on, then the undershirt, then the overalls, buttoning up the front, and finally, sitting on the floor, pulling the shoes on.

Gordon couldn't help the sense of relief which washed over him when he was pulled back to his feet and his officers slapped the handcuffs back over his wrists.

He secretly was astonished that the Joker had been so cooperative, never once struggling or resisting.

He'd done everything they told him without complaint. With hardly a sly remark even.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't expected the lunatic to somehow kill them all and escape back in to the world.

He was scared of the Joker.

He thought you'd have to be crazy yourself _not_ to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

With all the preparations finally finished, Gordon was quick to have the Joker taken directly to his assigned holding cell, located among the prison's general populace.

They'd explained to him standard protocol and rules of the penitentiary, not really taking note of the madman's seeming lack of interest.

His rights were read to him, it being explained that, should he be unable to afford an attorney, one would be provided to him by the state. And he was also told he would be held there until a court date could be set, at which time, his ultimate fate would be decided upon.

They did all of this as quickly as possible, wanting to have the Joker taken off their hands, turned over to the prison warden and his guards. Men more accustomed to dealing with violent and unruly individuals.

The warden, a Mr. Antonio Lopez, was more than pleased it seemed to relieve them of their prisoner.

The Joker had been brought to his cell by the penitentiary's head of security, a Mr. Lucas Arnold, and pushed in to the 15'X12' space, a billy club burying deep in to his lower back.

Apparently, he would be sharing the space with himself.

The Joker had laughed.

"Yeah, keep laughing freak show." Arnold spit, sliding the bars closed. "You won't be soon. I promise."

The Joker turned to look at him, wearing a lopsided grin.

"I'm sure." He answered, fixing his gaze intently on the man.

Arnold frowned deeply, feeling suddenly anxious.

He reacted by banging his club against the bars.

"Light's out at 9:30." He mumbled. "Lights on at 6:30. You'll have an hour outside at 3:00 PM, in the exercise yard. Lunch is at 12:30 in the cafeteria. You get half an hour. Breakfast and dinner will be served in your cell. You'll have 15 minutes in the showers, at 8 AM. Any questions clown boy?"

The Joker's grin broadened.

"I understand Officer, uh, _Arnooold_." He answered, glancing down at the man's name tag.

The anxiousness returned, and Lucas remained only a few moments more before turning away uneasily and walking quickly along the railway and turning down a set of stairs.

The Joker watched him for some seconds before himself turning away and glancing disinterestedly about the small space.

All that was there was a plain looking cot, bolted to the right side wall, blankets and sheets folded and placed on top of it, along with a stiff looking pillow, and then a toilet and sink, with a roll of toilet paper and a bar of soap, and that was it.

The Joker shrugged.

He'd lived on far less then that in his lifetime, over periods of time longer then he would be here, he was sure.

With that thought, he moved to the cot, sitting down on it for a few moments before finally laying, his body finally feeling the effects of having been awake for 72 hours straight.

It was only a matter of minutes then before he fell to unconsciousness, his sleep fitful, and filled with dreams of darkness.

/

He woke long before "lights on", having been capable of only a few hours of rest, as always.

As far back as the Joker could recall, which, over the last few years, wasn't very far at all, as he tried to reach back in his memory, the sights and sounds becoming more and more dim, he'd never been able to sleep well, or for long. He suffered insomnia mostly, and when he actually _was_ able to fall asleep, it was shallow, something he was easily jarred from.

The prison was dimly lit, the overhead lights set to their lowest point, but still kept on, vaguely illuminating the surrounding cells and just barely pouring in to the Joker's own.

He had to pee.

/

It was maybe 4 hours more before the lights suddenly went up.

The Joker had been sitting on his cot, his feet planted flat on the floor, his hands clasped under his chin.

His eyes moved out towards the row of cells across from his own, on the other side of the catwalk.

Inside, he could see other prisoners groggily shifting about, having a difficult time waking.

His own men were incarcerated here, he knew. But they were being kept in another wing entirely from his own.

Maybe half an hour more past before it seemed everyone was up and commotion filled the place, the inmates loud and raucous.

Several men from the surrounding cells, and some from across the way even were yelling out to the Joker, promising all kinds of punishments for him.

A lot of these were the men who'd been on the ferries the Joker had tried to get blown up. Which _would_ have blown up, had Batman not thrown him off the roof.

He smiled at the memory.

They'd be gunning for him now. But he already knew that.

It would be interesting, in any event.

He thought it was unlikely they'd waste any time in trying to get him. Today seemed as likely at time for them to make their move as any.

The Joker knew the prison guards themselves were counting on this. They'd certainly be no help to him. They'd be ready and willing to turn a blind eye to whatever attacks may occur.

The Joker smirked at the thought.

Another compromise of the "moral code".

"Alright then boys…" He spoke quietly to himself. "Let's go."

45 minutes later, and two dozen guards poured in to area, spreading out along each of the levels, standing at their assigned positions.

A loud buzzing noise sounded and the bared doors slid open.

In ordered compliance, all the inmates stepped forward and stood, facing forward.

The Joker stood from his cot slowly, pacing out of his cell leisurely.

He slouched in line, his shoulder's hunched forward as always and he looked from right to left, his expression bored as he took in the other inmates on either side of him.

He caught the eye of a few who were glaring at him with as much disdain as they could muster, and he just smiled back. That caused most of them to twist their face in disgust before looking away uneasily.

"FACE RIGHT!" One of the guards called out.

In unison, all the prisoners did as they were ordered.

The Joker couldn't help it as his eyes rolled up and he casually followed suit.

They were led from there, with a guard ahead of and behind the line, several more walking along side them, to the shower rooms, where they were let in in groups of ten at a time.

The Joker found himself in the 5th and final group.

They were made to take their cloths off just outside the showers, these ones being located in an area different from the one Gordon and his men had taken him to.

He knew the other prisoners were watching him intently as he stripped, and he smiled subtly to himself.

He heard murmurs running through them as he removed his undershirt and briefs.

"Damn…" Was one man's response to the numerous scars and bruises adorning his body.

Other's still spoke in hushed tones to one another, too quiet for him to make out.

He knew what they were likely saying anyway.

This shower room was larger then the one Gordon had taken him to, with more heads lining the ceiling, and more widely spread out. It could easily accommodate more then ten, but for security purposes, that was the max number they would allow.

It didn't escape the Joker's notice that the prison guards opted to stand just outside the door for this final group, rather then inside it, as they had with the others.

You were given ten minutes to clean yourself.

Five minutes in is when a group of four men attacked him.

He'd been standing under the shower head, just letting the water pour down atop his head and over his body, not bothering to scrub his skin with any cloth or soap, his head cast slightly downward, his arms hung limply at his side.

The men had been watching him out of the corner of their eye, just waiting. They'd discussed what they were going to do right before entering.

The Joker became aware of a shift in movement from his left hand side to behind him.

The inmates moved quickly then and a moment later, the Joker felt a towel wrap around his neck and pulled tight as he was pushed up against the wall before him.

Several sets of hands grabbed for his arms, pulling them up and holding them tight against the wall.

"Hey sweetheart!" One of the attackers leaned in and breathed against his ear. "Thought you could just blow us all up and get away with it, huh? Well, you're 'bout to learn it don't work that way 'round here."

The Joker's only response was to start giggling hysterically.

"Oh, you think that's funny?" The man hissed, pushing further in to him, pressing the madman's face hard in to the tile. "We'll see how funny you think it is when we get through with y…"

Before he could finish his sentence, the Joker had leaned backward as best he could, away from the wall, a second later bringing the heel of his foot down hard on to the man's toes.

There was a loud, crunching sound and the man screamed out in agony, immediately losing his grip on the towel.

"What the…" One of the others gasped in astonishment.

Before they could even realize what had happened, the Joker leaned to his side and sunk his teeth in to the hand of one of the other inmates holding his arms.

That man too screamed and lost his grip, and the Joker did the same to the other hand holding him, blood now running down his chin and smearing across his yellowed teeth.

Within seconds, his right arm was free and he swung around with it, latching his hand to one of the faces of the men to his left, pulling him towards himself and smashing his forehead in to his nose repeatedly.

The prisoner collapsed, his hands letting go, and the Joker didn't hesitate then in turning to one of the others who'd already lost his grip, ramming his forehead in to the inmates face, breaking his nose on impact, blood spraying out.

Within less then a minute, all four of his attackers were stumbling backward and away from him, moaning and yelling out in pain.

The Joker's eyes locked on the man who'd wrapped the towel around his neck and quickly he went to him.

Without saying a word, he reached his hand out and low, viciously taking hold of the prisoner's testacies and squeezing tightly.

The man's screams reached a ridiculously high pitch, to the point in which he almost didn't sound human.

The Joker leaned in, smiling.

"No, sweetheeeart…" He began softly. "That's ex_act_ly how it works around heeerre…"

His eyes shined darkly.

"I know what you were thinking." He said quickly. "You were thinking… wouldn't it be _funny_…" He squeezed harder and the man cried out again. "if the freak had to liimp arooound for a couplea' weeks, and that way _eeevery one_ _would know_ _just_ how you'd gotten to him." The Joker nodded, looking at the man with falsely innocent eyes. "Am I right? Is that what you thought?" His voice dropped lower.

The man was whimpering now, unable to answer through the all consuming pain.

"_Well_…" The Joker began again, his voice once more airy. "How about we do the same to you, hmm? And I promise, this'll get a lot more, uh, _attention_ then something as _boring _and preeedictable as prison rape."

"P-p-please…" The man wailed pitifully. "L-let me g-go…"

"No, no, no, no…" The Joker shook his head. "Heeeere we goooo…"

Without any sort of warning, the Joker's grip intensified ten fold, his still long nails digging in to the flesh like daggers, and in the next moment, he tore at the sack as hard as he could, ripping the thing clean off.

The man didn't have time to scream in response before he'd fallen to the floor, convulsing violently, strange, indescribable noises emanating from his throat as blood poured in sickeningly large quantities on to the white tile, mixing with the water.

"Jesus Christ! Jesus fucking Christ!" Someone yelled out.

The one man still standing lunged at the Joker, but the lunatic spun around quickly, tossing the torn away flesh in to their face, momentarily confusing them, and in that moment, the madman had latched tight to his hair, rearing his fist back and punching him in the face, hard, 5 times in succession.

When he let him go, the inmate fell to the floor, unconscious.

The others had already gone to their knees.

The Joker gazed at them curiously for only a moment before losing interest.

Stepping over the man now bleeding to death, the Joker grabbed a towel off one of the racks and began to run it over himself as he headed for the rooms exit.

Everyone else in there had been watching in wide eyed horror at what transpired, stunned in to absolute silence, and they fell back and away as the Joker past by them, their gaze fixed on him in fear of an attack.

As soon as the madman had left their sight, there was a loud commotion outside, a lot of yelling, and seconds later, several guards came piling in, stopping dead in their tracks as they took in the scene.

One man, a rookie, turned, vomiting on to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

The man had bled to death, the other three ending up in the infirmary, some for longer then others.

But no one since then had attempted any attacks on the Joker.

Not for several weeks, in any event.

They'd punished the Joker for what he'd done, placing him in solitary for a week. It would have been longer, but the prisoner's who'd witnessed what transpired explained that it was the four men who first attacked and the Joker had, really, only acted in self defense.

Things moved along without incident since then, much to the surprise, and un-admitted chagrin of the prison warden. He'd thought and hoped the Joker would be unruly and uncooperative so that he might have the opportunity to dish out some "discipline".

A month and a half in to the Joker's stay there, the other prisoner's decided to have another go at him, this time in the exercise yard.

The Joker went to the same spot every day for the allotted hour they were let outside, sitting on a secluded bench near the yards furthest, east end.

He would just sit there and, it seemed to every one else, stare ahead at nothing.

This time it was a group of eight, one of them a massively built black man, the one who'd thrown the detonator to the other ferry though the window.

They approached the Joker without hesitation, feeling safety in numbers.

He wouldn't be able to handle eight of them, especially with Tiny leading the charge.

They stopped in front of the madman, staring down at him.

He continued to gaze ahead, past them.

"Get up, freak." One of them spit.

The Joker didn't respond.

The man frowned, looking to Tiny.

Tiny's face twisted in to a scowl.

"Up." He said. "You tried to kill us. Face the consequences like a man."

At this the Joker looked up, staring the much larger man in the face.

He smiled.

"Like you?" He said. "With your little, uh, _posse _to back you up?"

He could see the annoyance line the large man's face and his smile grew.

"I can handle you all by myself, clown boy."

"I'm sure you can." The madman pushed.

Tiny inhaled deeply, his agitation growing.

"Get up bitch." His fists clenched. "I'll wipe that smirk off your face."

"Sure you don't need your boysss?" The Joker continued.

"Step up and I'll _show_ you I don't!" Tiny fumed.

"Tiny!" One of the others tried to intervene.

But the large man put his hand up, silencing him.

"Shut it. I'll handle the freak show."

"But don't you think…"

Tiny turned to him then, his eyes raging.

"No! I'll take care of this. Any of you step in, you'll have to answer to me!"

His eyes scanned over the other men in anger.

That shut everyone up.

Everyone knew you didn't mess with Tiny.

He turned back to the Joker.

"So now what clown boy? Ya gonna face me like a man!"

"More like a demon." The Joker replied.

Tiny's expression changed in to one of confusion for a moment, and before he could react, the Joker had leapt to his feet, never taking his eyes off the larger man's face, and kneed him as hard as he could in the groin.

Tiny grunted out in pain, immediately collapsing to all fours, and the Joker wasted no time in grabbing hold of his ears, pulling his head forward and smashing his knee up in to his face, knocking the big man to his back, his nose exploding in blood.

The Joker laughed, stepping to the fallen giant, bending down to look him directly in the face.

"Remember this face Tiny." He grinned, his scars stretching obscenely. "It's the last thing you'll ever seeeeee…"

And without another word, he latched tight to Tiny's face, his fingers wrapping around to the back of the man's skull, laying his thumbs on to of his eyes, pressing down as hard as he could.

Tiny's expression had gone from a mix of pain and surprise to sudden, absolute horror, and he began to scream unrestrained, his limbs flailing madly as he attempted in vain to throw the lunatic from him.

And the Joker laughed, equally unrestrained in his mirth.

The other men stood back, frozen, petrified, unable, or unwilling to act for fear of their own safety.

The anguished cried eventually drew the attention of several guards standing on duty, and only when they came running to the scene did the other inmates respond, stumbling back and turning, running in the opposite direction.

The guards tore the Joker away, but by then, it was too late. Tiny's eyes had been crushed to a sickening, gelatin-like substance, and nothing more of them remained.

"Sweet Jesus…" One of the guards murmured in dismay as they wrestled the Joker away, his hysterics echoing over the entire yard for everyone to hear.

/

They placed him back in to solitary confinement, this time for four weeks straight, a month.

The last time they'd done this, it had been in the hopes no further incidents would occur. Most inmates placed in solitary were, by the end, willing to do almost anything to get out.

Solitary at Gotham County was, after all, a completely secluded, 7.5'X9' cell, purposefully kept without a light source, without any kind of mattress or cot, and only a crude toilet bowl and faucet, with no sink and no warm water.

The only contact with people any prisoner placed there had was when a guard would come by, once a day, to shove a plate of food through the slot in the door.

Most men were, to say the least, docile and well behaved when they came out.

The Joker, however, hadn't seemed to change in the least. Besides his ragged appearance from his having to lay on the dirty, concrete floor and somewhat longer hair, he'd been all smiles, still assaulting the guards with cutting, condescending remarks.

They'd wanted to throw him back in, but Warden Lopez had overruled them, allowing the madman back in to general populace.

And, up until the incident in the exercise yard, it had seemed to work.

The Joker hadn't gotten in to any fights before then, nor had anyone engaged him.

In fact, the lunatic never seemed to socialize at all. He rarely ever spoke a word to anyone, other then the occasional insult to one among the prison staff.

Human contact appeared to mean little to him, and some joked he might be more comfortable in solitary after all.

Though no one actually believed that.

/

"Get in there!" Officer Arnold pushed the Joker from behind, in to the cramped cell.

The Joker stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance.

He chuckled.

"Sure you won't reconsideeer joining me for dinneeer Lucas?" He laughed, turning to look back at the man.

The head of security snarled.

"Enjoy your time in their _freak_." He spit, slamming the door shut, enveloping the cell in darkness.

The Joker shrugged, turning away and feeling his way to the opposite wall, where he sat, leaning against the cold concrete.

If he thought very hard about it, he could vaguely recall a time in his life when he'd been confined to a small, dark space, much like this one. Though any details of it escaped him. He only had the distinct feeling that he'd experienced this kind of state before.

As it was, it didn't bother him. He knew it was meant to. But he'd been alone so long, being so now had no impact. Even when he was surrounded by people, he felt no connection to them whatsoever, and he thought he may as well have been alone then as well.

He closed his eyes, completing the darkness by blocking away the miniscule streams of light which stole in to the cell through the small gaps between the door and the ground.

He could almost sleep in this quiet.

Almost, if not for the constant, unending noise in his head.

He dreamed while awake. That was how he liked to refer to it, the unrelenting working of his brain.

He dreamed of the world and its cruelty, of people and _theirs_. Of the bleakness of life and how pitifully they all tried to shield themselves from it's harsh reality.

And he dreamed of exposing them to it; of exposing them to themselves.

Social conditioning was a powerful thing, he realized. It was a strong motivator.

The people on the ferries, they hadn't blown each other up because of fear. They'd been afraid of their own guilt, afraid it would consume them whole.

People were _trained_ these days to believe killing was wrong, and sometimes, that ridiculous belief could overpower even the will to survive.

But still, he knew, deep down, everyone was capable of taking a life. You just had to figure out exactly what it was they couldn't bear to lose or couldn't stand to bear. Everyone had their price. Everyone was willing to compromise their supposed beliefs and commit so calledacts of _immorality_ under the right kind of pressure and motivation.

Everyone but himself.

But then, he knew that was because he didn't really believe in _anything_. He had no motives, nothing that drove him to act the way he did, nothing he feared, nothing he worried over losing.

And so it was impossible to force him to compromise, to get him to act against his wishes. Because there was nothing one could use as leverage against him, not when he cared for _nothing_.

Batman had found that out the hard way.

That thought made the Joker smile.

The Batman, so used to getting his way through intimidation and physical violence. But it hadn't worked on the lunatic. There'd been nothing he vigilante could use against the Joker, nothing to threaten or entice him with, nothing to persuade him with.

But Batman was an interesting sort. The Joker realized he hadn't ever encountered anyone like him before, someone so _very like_ himself.

It seemed he too was beyond compromise, that there was nothing that could be done to make him let go his beliefs. Which told the Joker he really _did _believe in what he preached, not like everyone else, who only were pretending to believe, to make themselves feel better.

No, Batman believed with all his heart and soul in what he practiced, and he wasn't willing to drop it.

What made it more interesting still, the Joker thought, was the fact that the Batman very much _did_ feel fear. He _did_ fear lose. There were things which could be used against him, taken from him, things which could be used to _hurt_ him.

And that's what made him _unlike_ the Joker.

But still, _like_ the Joker, Batman refused compromise. Still, he remained uncorrupt.

And the Joker found that fascinating, and _exciting_.

Because, in Batman, he'd found a true challenge.

Someone who wouldn't be so simple to push over the edge, someone who wouldn't go down without a fight. A great fight.

Like that woman, the Joker thought. What was her name? Batman cared about her deeply, that was painfully obvious. Her death no doubt impacted the crusader greatly. Easily as much as it did Harvey. And yet, he hadn't broken like the DA had.

He'd been too strong.

Indeed, it would take a tremendous amount of prodding then to get the vigilante to crumble.

The prospect of finally achieving it, of getting Batman to snap, was almost too much, and the Joker found himself giggling at the notion.

He'd _almost_ gotten him to that point. Batman had almost killed him, he'd almost compromised his one rule.

Almost.

But that's why he loved the vigilante.

He would provide endless amounts of fun, he was sure.

His mind turning back to the people on the ferries, the Joker thought maybe he just hadn't made himself clear enough.

They'd all be dead now if Batman hadn't prevented him from turning that key, and the next time he pulled a similar stunt, one which involved people killing each other in order to go on living, they'd remember how the last group had foolishly let their ethical standards get in the way and how they'd wound up because of it.

The Joker doubted very much that a second experiment would see social conditioning win out over instinct again.

As it was though, Batman _had_ stopped him from blowing them all sky high, and now it would take some leg work getting them to understand just how _serious _he was when making a threat.

And that was fine.

He could think of nothing more fun then widling away at people's hope and optimism. It made it all the more sweet when they finally realized how incredibly false and fleeting that hope was, how fake; their devastation at the epiphany compounded by their previous refusal to acknowledge the ugliness of life and the world.

That thought made his mind shift to the lie Gordon and Batman had concocted for the public, trying desperately to _save_ their spirit.

Really, the Joker thought, it was better this way, because when he got out, he would expose the lie to the citizens of Gotham, and they'd all realize that their hope had been based on a fabrication, and their resolve would crumble to dust.

And it would be riotously funny to see them break, and to know it wouldn't have come so easily if not for the actions of the Commissioner and his new playmate. To know that, if they'd just told people the _truth_, they wouldn't be in for such a rude awakening and a hard fall.

It would be the feeling of _loss_ which destroyed them. Having the promise of light and good snatched away from them which finally would make them buckle and succumb to the darkness within them all.

Gordon and Batman had no idea the great folly they'd committed, how the two of them, through their one lie, had single handedly led people to the cliff side. And now all they'd need is a little push. And it was he who would give it to them, right over the edge.

His laughter grew at the prospect, and soon it was echoing off the walls of his tiny cell, and filtering out, underneath the door, down the corridor, to the ears of those standing watch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

When they pulled him out of there two weeks later, his physical appearance would tell the tale of someone who had suffered, ragged and dirt laden, and almost painfully thin. His demeanor, however, spoke differently, much to the dismay and incredulity of the prison guards.

He seemed as unfazed as ever, as full of energy and amusement as when they'd tossed him in.

"How's it going boys?" He said as they pulled him along, towards the showers. "How's the _real _world been treating you, hmm?"

They didn't answer him, instead shoving him in to the tiled room.

"Five minutes." One of them barked.

The Joker shrugged, stripping off his dirtied prison uniform, handing it to one of the men and turning the faucet.

Cold water sprayed out and he stood still under it, his head slightly bowed, his long hair falling in to his eyes as it dripped wet.

He was sore, and undernourished, the guards neglecting to have fed him as often as they were supposed to.

He didn't mind though, really. He was used to going days without food.

It was part of life for him.

He leaned forward, placing his hands flat against the wall before him.

His eyes rose to look at them, noticing the red, cut up skin on his knuckles.

He'd probably been hitting the ground or the walls while he slept in there.

Dreams had disturbed what rest he could manage for years, and he often woke to find he'd struck out at something, either with his bare fists or with some weapon.

He tended to be destructive, even in slumber.

The notion made him smirk.

His nails were long too, and dirty, just like they'd always been before they brought him here. Before they'd cut them short.

He'd never really bothered with cutting his nails.

The only reason they never grew past a certain length was because they'd constantly break off.

The result of using his hands, often in some violent endeavor.

They'd cut them again before the hour was through.

They didn't like the inmates here sporting looks anything less then clean cut. With him, however, the purpose lay more behind wanting to eliminate any physical threat he might pose.

He'd already proven himself far more violent then the regular resident's housed there.

Already there'd been a lot of talk about the need to transfer him to Arkham, where they would be better equipped to deal with someone of his type. This despite the fact that he'd so far failed to instigate any confrontations himself.

It was his behavior during the confrontations begun by others which gave everyone there cause for concern.

But that would have to wait for the coming trial, and the mental evaluations, which were scheduled to begin a week from today, before his ultimate fate could be decided.

The five minutes past quickly and soon the Joker felt himself being pulled from the wall, a towel thrown his way.

"Dry off." He was told.

He did, and was then handed a new set of cloths.

He dressed quickly, and following, he was led to where the prisoner's grooming needs were addressed, where they'd cut his hair and nails short, and give him a shave.

The man who took care of these things was named Gabrielle Smith.

Gabrielle had been an inmate there for 40 years, and was now in his mid 60s, having come at the age of 25, convicted of double homicide.

The Joker knew, just from observing him, that the man's crime had been nothing greater then a mistake, youthful foolery gone wrong.

The man wasn't a killer, not like him. He wasn't a "danger to society".

The fact he'd gotten life in prison for having accidentally killed two people spoke loudly to the cruelty of the human race, and its desire to make suffer those who failed to comply with the _rules_.

The Joker liked to fuck with Gabrielle.

The first time they'd encountered one another, the older man had shaken his head, and the Joker knew he was feeling sorry for him.

"I know what you're thinking." The Joker had said. "Another young life, wasted, corrupted by the unrelenting harshness of reality, led hopelessly astray by the evils of the world."

Gabrielle had stared back at him, clear confusion written across his weathered features.

The Joker had smirked.

"Oh, I'm not like you Gabe…" He chuckled. "I'm not in here because of peer pressure or a prank gone horribly wrong, I'm not in here because of a _mistake_, noooo… I'm in here because…" He'd leaned closer to the man then, looking him hard in the eyes and dropping his voice to a whisper. "I'm a _bad_ man..."

Gabrielle's eyes had gone slightly wide and unconsciously he'd taken a step back, feeling suddenly threatened.

"At least, that's what _they _say…" The Joker shrugged, than laughed before taking his seat, three guards standing watch nearby.

The Joker didn't know the exact details of what Gabrielle had done, but he knew enough just to look at him, and by his reactions, and the three times they'd been in the same room together, he'd made sure to torment the older man with the pathetic nature of his circumstance, reminding him incessantly of how his life of incarceration could have been so easily avoided had he not given in to the demands of others, and Gabrielle, just as the Joker had wanted, grew to despise him.

"You're in the same boat too, boy." The barber had once tried to retort, and the Joker had only laughed, shaking his head.

"Oh, no, no, no…" He replied. "Not the same at _all_. I followed my own path, Gabe, and led myself here with _deliberate_ intent. You though, you got yourself here through lack of self-confidenccce. Huh? No trust in your own, uh, abilitiessss."

Gabrielle had lost it then, moving to attack the younger man, but the guards had stepped in quickly and thrown him back, screaming for him to stop, telling him the Joker was incredibly dangerous, and the Joker had just laughed as Gabrielle had pleaded with them, telling them he couldn't take the constant mind games anymore.

Gabrielle was not a violent man, not in the sense that he engaged in such acts regularly or for the purpose of gaining a thrill. But the Joker knew everyone, whether inclined towards it or not, was very much capable of violence, that indeed, violence was, in the end, inherent in all humans. There was no such thing as a _pacifist_. The very concept made him feel disgust.

He would pride himself on his ability to bring out the innate nature in others, no matter how strongly they opposed or denied it.

It was there, and he could coax it in to the open.

To say Gabrielle looked weary then as the Joker was brought in was an understatement.

He smiled at the old man, curving his lips up further on one end to bunch the scars up more.

He knew it unnerved people when he did that.

It looked so odd, after all.

The guards brought him to the chair and forced him down in to it.

"Good morning Gabe." He greeted the barber, who had silently wrapped an apron round the Joker's front.

"How's thingssss?"

No answer.

"The silent treatment, huh?" The madman chuckled. "I understand. That's a good tactic for when you're stuck in an argument you can't win."

"Who says we're arguing?" Gabrielle finally spoke.

"You just did." The Joker smiled.

Gabrielle thought he should say something in reply, but his mind could think of nothing which he wasn't sure the young man wouldn't just twist to his own benefit, so he said nothing, and found himself plagued by the truth of the Joker's words just moments ago, about the silent treatment being a good tactic for situations just like these.

He hated this kid.

And he hated himself.

Several minutes past in silence as Gabrielle pulled a comb roughly through the Joker's tangled hair, trying to hurt him, disappointed when the lunatic failed to overtly react.

A few minutes more, and he'd begun to clip at the long strands of dark blonde.

All inmates at Gotham County were made to sport hair no longer then past the bottoms of their ears.

When the Joker's hair was trimmed, revealing and framing his face, his youth and good looks became only more apparent, and it seemed to unnerve a great many of the residents and employees alike.

Someone so vile, they thought, should be old and their features should express the ugliness of their insides.

But beyond the ragged scars growing out from the corners of his lips, and the fading marks of the cuts on his right cheek, there was nothing on the outside to indicate the monster that lay within.

He was perfectly handsome. A strapping young man even, some might say.

Only his eyes betrayed his nature, dark and cold as they were.

After having trimmed the madman's nails back, and halfway through shaving his face, the Joker again began to speak.

"I'll bet you wish that was a straight razor instead of an electric, huh Gabe?"

The barber breathed out heavily.

"Be quiet." He said.

"Oh, come on Gabe." The Joker ignored him. "You can admit it. You'd like to kill me. And what difference would it make if you did? None at all. You're already stuck here forever for something you didn't even _mean_ to do. At least with me, you'd have _intended _to take my life."

Gabrielle saw red. He couldn't stand it any longer. He'd been pushed to the edge.

"You shut up you God damned _bastard_!" He raged and without thinking, he'd raised his hand up and back, swinging it forward to strike the Joker in the face.

But just as quickly, the Joker had reached his own hand up, snatching Gabrielle's out of the air and standing, twisting the attached limb back at an incorrect angle, causing the older man to scream out in pain.

In the next instant, the madman had torn the electric razor from his other hand and, letting go of the barbers arm, pulled the instruments cord taught before wrapping it round Gabrielle's throat, tightening it forcefully.

It all happened in a matter of seconds, and Gabrielle had already begun making choked sounds of struggled breathing, his hands coming up and pulling pitifully at the restricting plastic.

The guards, overcoming their momentarily stunned state, ran for them.

The Joker's teeth had born in a snarl as he pulled with all his strength, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the cord harder, his eyes focused and fixed on the back of the barber's head and he tried to strangle the life from him.

And he'd nearly succeeded before he was rammed from the side and knocked to the floor.

Gabrielle had collapsed to his knees the moment the Joker was made to let loose his grip, gasping and coughing violently, desperately trying to suck air to his lungs.

The lunatic watched him with amused eyes for the brief moment he had before he was assaulted by the guards, coming down on him with their boots and nightsticks, screaming profanities and expressions of their own fear.

And the Joker only laughed, his hilarity seeming to increase as the blows hardened, only ending when he was clubbed in the temple and the world for him faded to black.

/

They'd beaten him well enough, and he'd wound up in the infirmary, needing stitches along his forehead.

Though beyond that and some bad bruising, he really hadn't sustained much damage, not as much as Gabrielle, who wound up confined to the infirmary for several days, the cord having cut a deep line in his throat.

The scarring would never go away.

They'd have place the Joker back in solitary, had it not been for the fact a state issued psychiatrist would be coming to see him in less then a week now, and they wanted to put on a good front for their facility and treatment of the prisoners.

And it was only four days after the incident with Smith, when the Joker had been brought to the cafeteria for lunch, when another occurred, this one without apparent cause.

He'd been standing in line, waiting to be served.

As he always was when among the general populace, he was quiet, some might describe him as reserved, introverted even, his eyes cast slightly downward, his tray held in both hands before him.

Nothing about the scene had been unusual and save for the noise of the other inmates talking amongst each other, the place seemed calm.

No one had even thought of engaging the Joker since he took down Tiny with such absurd ease.

And so his sudden outburst seemed literally to come from nowhere.

He'd turned towards the counter the inmates were lined against and in the next instant had smashed his tray against it, hard, breaking it in to pieces. Grabbing hold of one of the larger chunks, it's edge now jagged and sharp, he turned towards the man in front of him, a man much larger then himself, and proceeded to reach his arm around the other inmates neck, yanking him backwards, towards him, before placing the piece of plastic against his throat and digging it in, dragging it across, slicing it open unevenly and messily.

The prisoner didn't even have time to react verbally or otherwise before he slumped to the ground, chocking and gagging, blood gushing from the wound.

The Joker didn't wait before spinning around and attacking the inmate directly behind him, his eyes wild as he rammed the now bloodied piece of plastic in to the other man's shoulder as hard as he was able, breaking the skin.

The man screamed out in agony and the Joker just kept driving the plastic forward, further in to the flesh, until it cut in to his own palm and there was blood trickling down his forearm.

Chaos erupted around the scene, and it didn't take long before the whole situation had degraded in to craziness, the prisoner's attacking and fighting with each other.

It happened so quickly that no one had at first known the cause of it.

The Joker had delved right in, snapping the neck of the one prisoner before moving on to another.

Every one he encountered, he either killed with his bare hands, or injured severely.

Others attacked him, but quickly found themselves regretting the decision.

The Joker was a dirty fighter, one who used any and all means possible to inflict the maximum amount of damage. He bit, stabbed at their eyes with his fingers, tore at the ball sack, used his own head as a battering ram to their faces.

He was beyond vicious, and more dangerous still, he seemed immune to pain.

One man had punched him in the face five times, breaking his nose, certain he would drop the madman, but the Joker hadn't fallen, and he'd then thrown himself at the inmate, his hands grabbing hold of the man's face and tearing in to it, literally trying to rip the skin from his skull. They fell to the floor, the Joker on top as he dug his fingers in to the other prisoner's cheeks, blood beginning to seep out and his ears filled with the man's screams.

And he continued to try and hold on, even as he felt himself being torn off and finally away, thrown across the floor.

He looked up to find a man shorter then himself but stout, obviously very strong.

He came in on the madman, his hands outreached, ready to pull him up, and the Joker had responded by grabbing hold of the man's fingers and snapping them back against their natural angle.

He collapsed quickly and the Joker pushed himself to his feet just as fast, kicking the prisoner in the face before moving on to someone else.

Nearly ten minutes of rioting ensued before sufficient backup arrived, breaking it up with great effort still.

By the end of it, 52 prisoners had sustained serious enough injuries to justify a trip to the infirmary, with 9 others having been lethally wounded.

The Joker was one of the 52 requiring medical attention, someone having broken a glass over his head, creating a gash wide enough to need stitches, as well as him having sustained a broken nose and cheek bone.

It wasn't learned until later, after the security tapes had been reviewed, that the Joker had been the instigator of the entire thing, and had been responsible for nearly half of the men who ended up hospitalized, along with 7 of the 9 men who'd been killed.

Watching the footage back, the prison Warden and his head of security could find no reason for the Joker's sudden outburst. 

He'd just exploded, out of seemingly nowhere, and the loss of temper had been more violent and vicious then anything either of the two men had ever seen.

He was more like an animal then a human being.

He was savage.

Pain didn't appear to deter him in the least.

Even when someone had broken a mug over the back of his skull, he'd spun around as though nothing had happened at all, attacking his attacker with as much ferocity as he'd maintained throughout, knocking them unconscious within a matter of seconds.

At several points, he'd single handedly taken out groups of three and four aggressors.

There was no _fear _in this man, if one could even call the Joker a man.

And that fact frightened them most of all.

How were you supposed to control someone who was beyond intimidation?

The only solution they could come to terms with was to keep the Joker restricted to his cell 24 hours a day, completely isolated from the prisons other inmates, and pray to God, when he was finally evaluated and brought to trial, they would find him mentally incompetent and send him to Arkham Asylum, finally taken off their hands and delivered to those more accustomed to dealing with nut jobs.

Warden Lopez and Lucas Arnold both agreed, if ever there was a case of someone qualifying as mentally unstable, it was the Joker.

/

Two days later, that question would be answered officially.

A Dr. Henry Irving arrived there at precisely 7:00 AM, looking very serious.

Not the kind of man who would tolerate behavior less then professional from anyone it was expected of.

The Warden had practically fallen over himself in greeting the psychiatrist, asking more then once if there was anything extra they could provide.

"Just show me to where the evaluation will be held, thank you." Irving had answered sternly.

Lopez nodded fervently.

"Yes Sir. Right this way Sir."

A few minutes later, and they'd arrived at a plain walled, relatively small room, with nothing but a desk at its center, two chairs on either side, and a ceiling lamp hung over head.

Dr. Irving said nothing as he moved quietly to sit at the table, laying his brief case atop it and beginning to remove several sets of folders.

Warden Lopez watched him uneasily for a few moments before clearing his throat.

The psychiatrist looked up at him, his brows raised expectantly.

"Yes?" He asked after a moment of silence.

"Just to inform you Doctor, there was an… _incident_… involving your subject of evaluation a few days ago, if you're wondering about his physical state."

Irving's expression changed to one of annoyance.

"And just what _is_ his state, may I ask?"

Lopez was about to answer when there was a knock at the door.

"Uh, that must be them." He said. "Just a moment please."

He turned towards the entrance and, opening the door, found three guards, and the Joker, restrained by cuffs around his wrists and manacles along his ankles, attached together by a long chain, with two guards on either side of him, and the third taking up the rear.

"Ah, good." Lopez smiled thinly, turning back to the doctor. "They're here."

The psychiatrist nodded.

"Show him in please."

The Warden nodded, signaling to the guards to enter.

They did, roughing taking hold of the Joker's thin arms and pulling him along and forcing him down in to the empty chair.

"If there's nothing else Sir…" Lopez began.

Irving shook his head.

"Then I'll just leave you to it… Uh… how long do you estimate this will take?"

The doctor gave a small shrug.

"It varies from subject to subject, but it shouldn't take more then an hour."

Lopez gave a nod.

"Very good Sir. If you need anything, just ask one of my men here and they should be able to take care of you."

With that, the Warden left, leaving only the guards, the doctor and the test subject.

Irving looked to the bulked up prison employees.

"You may leave." He said.

The guards looked uneasily at one another.

"Uh, you sure that's okay Doctor? We can stay, no problem."

"Why wouldn't I be sure?" The psychiatrist asked back, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "This meeting, I shouldn't have to remind you, is purely confidential. You may step outside."

"We know that Sir." One of the men insisted. "It's just, you know…" He nodded towards the Joker. "It can get a little uncomfortable… for some people."

"I'm perfectly accustomed to dealing with all manner of individual Mr…" His eyes narrowed, trying to read the name tag. "Arnold." He finished. "I'm seasoned in the handling of very _violent_ cases. Believe me when I tell you, I'll be fine."

The guard nodded.

"Alright Sir. We'll be just outside this door then if you need us."

Irving nodded in return, waiting for them to leave.

Finally they did and the doctor's eyes at last drifted to the prisoner before him.

If the Joker's appearance at all surprised him, he didn't let it show, his expression never faltering from the stoic look he held.

That didn't surprise the Joker.

The man was trained to always appear as nothing less then objective.

"Good morning." Irving began. "I'm Dr. Henry Irving. I'm here to perform some tests, to determine whether or not you're fit to stand trial for the crimes with which you've been charged."

He waited for some kind of response, but the Joker only continued to stare unblinkingly at him.

The doctor observed him back with curiosity now.

"You look as though you've been involved in a tussle of some sort." He noted, taking in the inmates bandaged nose, the stitches along his forehead and the bruising around his eyes and cheekbones. "Care to tell me about it?"

Still no response.

"Alright then." Irving nodded, seemingly unfazed. "It's not required."

He looked down then, removing some papers from one of the folders, placing them neatly in to a pile before him before flipping through them casually, his eyes scanning over them quickly.

The Joker watched him.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, if that's alright with you?" The psychiatrist looked up again and still no response from the prisoner.

Irving regarded him for a moment more before reaching suddenly to his breast pocket and pulling a pen from it.

He kept his eyes on the Joker as he removed the cap, placing it on the pen's end.

"So…" He began, as calm as ever. "You put on quite the show out there." He gestured behind him, to a window, covered in bars, still showing a view to the outside.

He looked down to his notes.

"Some very destructive behavior indeed."

He glanced up, wanting to see if there was any response.

There was none.

Irving looked up directly now.

"They haven't been able to identify you." He said. "So I'll assume then you've never been incarcerated before now? Never been arrested?"

No answer.

"Have you ever spent any time in a mental institute?"

Still nothing.

"Mmm hmm." The doctor nodded.

"And your name?" He asked. "It says here they've found no records of you ever having existed. No birth certificate, no social security number, no matches on dental, DNA…" He smiled if only vaguely. "It's as though you appeared out of thin air."

Still the Joker did nothing to overtly respond, his expression remaining blank.

"Do you have a name?" The psychiatrist questioned. "Besides the Joker I mean?"

Nothing.

Irving nodded again and this time put his pen to paper, beginning to write.

The Joker's eyes moved to the paper, watching what was put down.

"I don't talk to you and so that makes me a retard?" He said suddenly, causing Dr. Irving to look up just as abruptly.

"Excuse me?" He said.

The Joker nodded towards the paper.

"Your notes." He answered. "You wrote 'subject shows signs of possible mental regression and/or stunted emotional growth.'. Is that what you think? Without even _talking_ to me?"

Irving's expression remained unmoved.

"It's simply a case of recording any and all observations I have. Since this evaluation will be used as evidence in a court of law, it's important I leave nothing out. And I tried talking with you, but so far, you've not spoken back."

"You didn't ask anything which deserved answering." The Joker replied quickly.

The psychiatrist arched an eyebrow at this before smirking lightly.

"Well then…" He began. "What _would _warrant an answer, might I ask?"

The inmate shook his head.

"That's your job Doc. You've got to, uh, _earn_ my interest."

"I see." The doctor nodded, looking down to his notes.

"It seemed to have bothered you, what I wrote." He said, looking back up. "Do you find it troublesome when people question your intelligence?"

The Joker smirked.

"If only it were that easy Doc, hmm?"

"It's only an observation. Why would you feel the need to point it out if it didn't in some way annoy you?"

"Oh, it didn't annoy me Doc. I just didn't think it would look good, you jumping to conclusions without any actual, uh, _evidence_ to back it up."

For a moment, Dr. Irving said nothing, and then he gave a nod.

"Very well then. Fair enough. Let's move on, shall we?"

He shuffled through another few papers.

"Do you know why you're here?" He asked.

"Cause I blew some stuff up and killed a bunch of people." The Joker said, laughing.

"Yes, that's right." Irving agreed. "Do you understand _why _it is they would lock you up for those things?"

The Joker leaned back in his seat slightly, his eyes narrowing as he observed the psychiatrist.

"Is this the part where you try to determine if I can tell the difference between _right and wrong _Doc?"

"Just answer the question please."

The Joker looked suddenly agitated, his eyes rolling up before his gaze drifted off to the side, the first time he'd looked away from the doctor.

"People don't want to face the truth." He said. "That's why I'm in here. They don't want to face the reality of the world they live in." His eyes moved back to Irving. "I _force_ them to face the truth, to face what they _really are_. What's left when you _strip away_ all the pretense and conditioning of society and leave nothing but what's at their core. A frightened animal whose _moral code_ amounts to nothing more then a set of rules, held in place to help ensure their survival. That's all it is. The second that _morality _threatens them …" He shrugged. "They drop it like a hot coal. I remind them of that, and so they lock me away and pretend I don't exist."

"So you don't understand why it is what you did was wrong?" Irving asked.

And suddenly, swiftly, the Joker leaned forward, his eyes at once angry.

"There _is_ no right or wrong." He hissed. "There's no such thing."

The doctor didn't move.

"I'm sorry?"

"Concepts of right and wrong are in a constant state of flux, _Doc_. They change when people _need _them to change. They adjust them according to their needssss." He leaned back again. "They didn't throw me in here because what I did was wrong." He shook his head. "It wasn't. They threw me in here because I threaten their safe, little world."

The doctor nodded.

"Hmm." He said. "But you understand why it is they _say_ what you did was wrong?"

"There's no truth to it." The Joker answered. "It's a lie."

"But do you understand the difference between what society deems right and wrong? Are you able to acknowledge the difference?"

"There is no difference. It's all meaningless, in the end."

"No." Irving shook his head. "No. There is a difference Joker. Don't you see that? There are barriers and bounds, lines which separate one type of action from another."

The Joker only stared at him.

"Do you not see that?" The doctor pressed. "Do you not see the distinction?"

"There is none." The Joker repeated. "All actions hold the same significance in the world. It all amounts to the same thing."

"Which is?"

"Nothing."

Dr. Irving stared hard at the inmate for a moment.

"You believe this wholly then? You believe in the absolute _absence_ of morality? Of right and wrong?"

"I don't belieeeve it Doc." He leaned closer. "I _know_ it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5:**

It took only two months further before a hearing had been arranged. And it was on a Monday morning that the Joker, along with his state issued attorney, a judge and Gotham's recent replacement DA were all gathered in a downtown court room, evidence being heard to determine the defendant's ability to stand trial.

If he was found competent, a trial date would be set, and the Joker would be judged by a jury of his peers, or so called. If found incompetent, there would be no trial, and he would be sent to Arkham Asylum, the stay presumably indefinite.

The judge, Judge Steven Wilks, would be the one to decide.

Presently, Dr. Irving had taken the stand, and was being examined by the appointed attorney, a Mr. Jared Lest.

"Dr. Irving…" Lest began. "You were assigned by the state to conduct a psychological examination of the defendant. Is that correct?"

Irving nodded.

"Yes." He answered.

"And would you mind telling the court your exact findings?"

"Not at all." The doctor answered. "Upon my initial examination and follow up examinations, I found the defendant to suffer from… a _number _of well documented psychological disorders."

"Such as?" Lest pushed.

Dr. Irving shifted slightly.

"ASPD, for starters." He said.

"Which is?"

"Anti-social personality disorder." The psychiatrist explained. "He shows clear signs of it."

"Anything else?"

He nodded.

"Yes. He also exhibits clear signs of suffering from a state of manic depression, bipolar disorder, and even schizophrenia, as well as entertaining what could only be classified as delusions of grander. This is what I observed in four hour long sessions. Obviously, to cipher down what specific _form_ of these psychoses' he suffers, I would need further sessions, as well if I wished to determine any other mental illness' he may have."

Lest nodded thoughtfully.

"If I may? Delusions of grander? Can you elaborate for the court what you mean by that?"

"Yes." Irving replied. "After speaking with the defendant, it is my belief that he is living in a reality constructed almost entirely of fantasy. He seems… unable to grasp the boundaries of reality."

"Meaning?"

"Well, beyond a disregard for his own safety so blatant it only could be blamed on a failure to fully comprehend consequence of action, he also is incapable of acknowledging the _existence_ of right and wrong." The doctor said plainly. "The concept is something his mind finds impossible to accept."

"Are you saying the defendant doesn't know the difference between right and wrong?" The lawyer questioned.

"I'm saying that his mind so strongly rejects the idea of right and wrong's existence that, yes, it renders him incapable of distinguishing any difference between the two. If he cannot even _acknowledge_ that right and wrong, as concepts, exist, then he surely is not capable of making any sort of logical distinction between how each is defined. "

"And it is also your belief, then, that his apparent disregard for his own well-being, along with that of others, is a clear sign of an inability to fully grasp or… _understand_ the consequences of his actions?"

Irving nodded.

"Yes." He said.

"In your professional opinion, Dr. Irving, is the Joker mentally competent to stand trial for the crimes with which he's been charged?"

The doctor shook his head.

"No." He answered. "I do not believe the Joker to be mentally competent to stand trial."

"That will be all Doctor." Lest said. "Thank you."

Judge Wilks looked to the DA.

"Consoler?" He nodded.

The DA stood, stepping towards the stand to begin his cross-examination.

"Dr. Irving, would you describe the Joker as an intelligent person?"

The psychiatrist gave a shrug.

"I haven't had a chance to test his intelligence quotient, if that's what you're asking."

"Let me rephrase. Would you describe the Joker as capable of rational thought?"

"Well, that depends…" Irving began.

"It's a simple yes or no question Doctor."

"Then the answer is no Counselor. I would not." The psychiatrist answered, leaving an expression of mild surprise on the DA's face.

"Are you telling me and this courtroom that you _don't_ believe the defendant to be capable of a logical or rational thought process?"

"Well, as I said, it depends."

"On what?"

"On how you approach the notion of rational thought. Is the defendant capable of holding an uninterrupted train of thought? The answer to that question is yes. But from what I've observed, he is incapable of acknowledging the existence of the bounds and standards on which be base our society. So while he very much is able to, say, hold a conversation with either you or me, stay on subject and even come across as an engaging, well spoken conversationalist in the process, it is in my opinion that he is very much detached from the reality of the world we live in and so unable to fully appreciate the consequences of his actions. _Rational thought_, in this case, the ability to distinguish between right and wrong, is absent. Of that kind of rational thinking, in my view, the Joker is incapable."

The DA looked annoyed, running a hand through his hair, glaring at the psychiatrist for a moment before turning and walking back to his desk.

He turned again.

"What of all the plans he meticulously put together and set in to action doctor?" He began again. "Are you telling me that the defendant wasn't _aware_ of what he was doing? That he didn't know his actions would result in mass property damage and the death of dozens of citizens and police officers?"

"No." Irving answered calmly. "No, he was very much aware of everything he did. He knew what would happen if he set his plans in to motion."

"Than what?" The DA questioned. "Isn't that him displaying the ability to differentiate between right and wrong?"

The doctor shook his head.

"No, I'm afraid not Consoler. You see, as I explained before, while the Joker is aware of his own actions and their intended affect, he still is left incapable of acknowledging the very _existence_ of right and wrong as tangible concepts. In his mind, right and wrong cease to exist. All he can see is action and reaction. No questions of morality come in to play because he simply is unable to accept that morality is _real_. His mind isn't able to _grasp _such a thought. It simply is beyond him."

The DA looked highly agitated now, and his mouth opened as if ready to ask another question, before sighing in aggravation, waving a hand.

"That will be all." He muttered.

The judge gave a nod.

"You may step down Doctor."

As the psychiatrist did, Judge Wilks stole a glance at the Joker who, from the moment he'd been brought in to the court room and made to sit at the defendants table, had been lying forward on the desk, his hands cuffed together on his lap, his head rested on its side and held at what could only be described as an odd angle, almost giving him the appearance of a wounded animal.

He hadn't moved in the entire time they'd been there, which at this point was nearly an hour. He hadn't reacted in any way visible to anything which had gone on, to anything which had been said about him. Judge Wilks would have thought he was sleeping, if not for the fact he could see the Joker's eyes were wide open and barely blinking, his expression blank. He looked almost dead.

The thought of it caused a shiver to run down the Judge's spine.

Before Dr. Irving had taken the stand, another doctor, Dr. Harriet Baker, had testified to the opposite prognosis. She too had held several, hour long session with the Joker and had claimed, in her professional opinion, that he _was_ mentally competent to stand trial.

And that had seemed all very fine and well when the DA examined her. But upon cross-examination from Lest, Dr. Baker's stance had wavered, if only slightly, as he got her to admit her opinion had been formed solely on the Joker's seemingly high intelligence and that, indeed, the defendant seemed to suffer from grandiose delusions and appeared, largely, detached from reality, so insistent that his warped perceptions of the world were right that there was no room for reasoning with him, no way to get him to acknowledge even the _possibility_ he might be wrong.

This had dealt a sever blow to the DA's case and from then on, as seen in his half-hearted cross-examination of Dr. Irving, he didn't exactly try hard to convince the judge of the Joker's sanity.

He believed what he said so thoroughly that it _had _to be defined as delusional. Delusion so strong it overcame any ability for rational thought. His intelligence didn't reflect the state of his mental health, after all. And if he couldn't be reasoned with, if he was mentally incapable of acknowledging certain concepts or seeing the lines which separated reality from fantasy, then it seemed logical to conclude he in fact _was _incompetent to stand trial.

And, after retreating to his chamber for a little over an hour, leaving the others in the courtroom to recess, and the defendant brought to a holding cell in the building, Judge Wilks returned to declare the Joker just that, sentencing him to Arkham Asylum for an indefinite period of time, or until he was declared fit by the licensed psychiatrists there to safely reenter society. Something Judge Wilks was certain would never come to pass.

This young man would be there for the rest of his life.

As the verdict was read out, the Joker didn't react, sitting there motionless, staring blankly ahead. His lawyer congratulated him, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a pat, and to this too the Joker said and did nothing, allowing himself without resistance to be handled to his feet by the guards and led out back, to a waiting van, where he would be taken back to County before being transferred to Arkham within the week.

No one had been particularly surprised by the verdict, and indeed it would be met with relief by Warden Lopez and his staff. Even by the other prisoners.

Everyone knew the Joker was crazy.

Arkham was where he belonged.

Where they could _handle _someone like him.

/

There'd been news of Batman filtering through the prison population in the last 3 months, rumors, mostly, about how he was continuing to operate, even as the police department continued to hunt him.

The Joker knew they'd never catch him, not unless he _let_ them.

The hypocrisy of this city's citizens made him sick, how they enthusiastically clung to the _lie_ that Batman had killed those men, willingly, _gladly_ badmouthing him while simultaneously reaping the benefits of his protection.

He also knew they couldn't be that stupid.

It was all too convenient, the deaths of those people falling at the feet of a controversial, yet beneficial outlaw.

Deep down they _had_ to know it was a lie, even if they didn't know about what.

But as he'd learned a long time ago, people would believe almost anything if it made them feel better about themselves, or gave them the opportunity to say 'I told you so.', even when the truth was kicking them in the fucking face.

It didn't matter though.

The truth would come out, eventually, and when it did, when he made _sure_ it did, the devastation to them would be immeasurable.

They would suffer all the more for their refusal to accept what _was_.

As it was, for the last few months, and for much of his stay at County due to his twice being placed in solitary, he'd been kept from hearing much of the gossip anyway. But he'd heard _enough _to know _exactly_ what was going on out there. He's always only needed the minimum amount of information to form an incredibly accurate picture of the truth.

One time he'd even been allowed in the rec. room and had caught a glimpse of a news program, with that moron Mike Engle, spouting his usual garbage.

But that had only been once, before they'd decided it was easier on them to not grant him any extra privileges.

That last two months, before the court hearing, he'd been confined to his cell for almost 24 hours a day, save for when he was brought to the showers, and the times he'd been brought to speak to the two quacks.

And his last five days at County were no different.

He'd felt nothing at the court hearing. He'd barely been listening, his mind racing with other thoughts. He was aware of what was happening and of what was being said, only because his mind worked that way, hyper-aware of everything.

It was painful, sometimes, being unable to ever _fully_ block things from his mind.

When he'd been declared incompetent to stand trial, and that smug ass of a lawyer they'd assigned him put his hand on his shoulder, the Joker had felt the desire to crush his throat.

He would have, to, if the guards hadn't taken him by the arms before he could act.

It was ten in the morning. They would be transferring him in less then 30 minutes.

The directors at Arkham had requested they be given five days minimum to prepare the asylum for the Joker's arrival.

Lopez hadn't been too pleased by that. He'd wanted to get the Joker out of his prison and out of his responsibility as soon as possible.

But considering what might have been the alternative, five more days with the madman didn't seem so bad.

The time past quickly, or at least, it seemed to. Time was purely abstract, and the Joker had never been one to notice it, in any capacity. He certainly never kept _track_ of it, the way most people did, obsessing over it, counting as it came and went, letting it direct their _lives_.

He knew it was just another implemented mechanism for making themselves feel safe. But God, he couldn't even _begin_ to understand how acquiring a false sense of security could persuade so many to _willingly_ lock their days in to a _routine_, doing and saying identical things at exactly the same moment they did the day previous.

It was sickening to think about, even more sickening to think he'd been _forced _to follow a routine these last, few months, and so he stopped.

That's when Lopez and a group of six prison guards had appeared outside his cell door.

"Good morning Joker." Lopez greeted, his face tight. He hated the Joker, and the Joker knew it wasn't because of all the so called "atrocities" he'd committed. It was because the Warden's ridiculous punishments hadn't appeared to have any affect on him. Lopez was stereotypical of so many prison directors, relishing in the power they held over the population of their facility. But power came from persuasion, an ability to control someone else through action or threat.

Clearly, beyond physically restricting his movement, a last resort, nothing they'd done to the Joker had worked to control him. And that angered Lopez. Confining the madman to his cell had been a final option, and a sort of acquiescence on his part that they could do nothing to the lunatic to alter his behavior, only limit his movement.

"I assume you're ready?" He asked, though it was a meaningless inquiry. They were going to move him now whether he was "ready" or not.

The Joker didn't answer, just stared coldly at him.

The warden cleared his throat nervously.

"Very well than. Mr. Arnold." He motioned for his head of security to open the door.

All six men came in on him as Lopez stood back, watching as they cuffed his writs and ankles together.

As they moved him out of the pen and down the corridor, the Warden taking up the rear, past the other cells, then down the steps, the inmates hollered and shouted at him, calling him the most insulting names their dull minds could think up.

He smirked.

It was funny, how brave they became when protected behind bars and they knew, soon, he would no longer be among them and so unable to retaliate against their insolence.

At least, that's what they _thought_.

The guards seemed to move him along quicker as the jabbing continued from the prisoners, nearly causing the Joker to lose his footing more then once as he was pulled faster then his chained feet could step.

It made him mad, but he didn't say or do anything.

They were outside the penitentiary soon, out one of the large building's back entrances, where a waiting SWAT van sat, its back doors open, its engine already running, with several SWAT members waiting by its sides and end.

The Joker smiled.

"This look's fammmiliar, huh boysss?"

No one said anything as he was handed off to the other team.

As he was taken by the arms and moved towards the van, he looked back over his shoulder, at Warden Lopez, his smile broadening as he gave a sudden wink at the older man.

"Be seein' ya around Tony!"

Color drained visibly from the Warden's face, his mouth dropping to a frown, and it caused the Joker to laugh out.

And even when they'd gotten him up in to the van, four SWAT officers piling in after him, and the doors were slammed shut, the madman's mirth could still be heard clearly through the thick, metal barrier.

Warden Lopez turned then, back towards the prison, motioning for his guards to follow.

Running a hand over his face, he mumbled quietly to himself.

"Thank Jesus he's gone."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6:**

The ride to Arkham was a silent one, with the four SWAT officers looking anywhere but at the Joker, while the Joker stared directly ahead at the man in front of him.

They were nervous, afraid he was somehow going to escape his bonds and kill them all.

That amused him, considering they were the ones with guns and he was currently, heavily shackled.

Arkham was just outside the city limits, and it took a good while before they arrived.

When they did, it was to quite the reception.

Arkham was an old institution, built at the turn of the 20th century, and it loomed darkly in the air, looking every bit as haunted as it was rumored to be.

Waiting just outside the asylum's entrance was the hospital's director, Jeremiah Arkham, along with a staff of six orderlies and two women nurses.

As they pulled the Joker roughly from the back of the van, Jeremiah was quick to step in.

"Gently, please." He ordered in a soft, but still commanding voice. "Gently."

This drew the Joker's attention and he stared at the director with interest.

He half smirked.

He could already pin _this_ guy down.

Staunchly opposed to any _physical_ mistreatment of the patients, to exude an attitude of _caring_, but who at the same time got off on abusing them mentally. Inflicting the kind of scars no one could _see_.

He had no doubt, if the director had _time _to be his main doctor, he would. But it was likely he didn't. He would try punishing the Joker through other means, denying him certain privileges and all that.

And just taking a glace at the slabs of meat dressed in white beside him, he knew the coming physical abuse was already well accounted for.

"Thank you gentlemen." Jeremiah nodded when they finally had the Joker down on the ground. "I believe we can take it from here."

The SWAT team said nothing in response, other then giving a brief nod before returning to their vehicle and taking their leave.

As soon as they were out of sight, the director turned towards his newest resident, giving him a reserved smile.

"Hello." He greeted, injecting the kind of friendliness in to his voice which made it sound as though this were a social call.

"Welcome to Arkham Asylum. I'm Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, the asylum director."

The Joker only stared at him, saying nothing, his expression flat.

The doctor looked to his staff members, tilting his head in the buildings direction.

A moment later and the orderlies had taken the Joker by the arms and were moving him forward, up the stairs and through the large, double doors.

"As you're aware…" Dr. Arkham continued as they walked. "you've been sentenced to an indefinite stay here. Our _goal_ at Arkham Asylum is to _help_ our patients get to the point in which they can successfully reenter society as a fully functioning, productive citizen."

"Is _that_ your goal?" The Joker suddenly spoke. "And here I was, thinking it was a glorified vacation resort, here to help me gain that _tanned_ complexion I've always wanted."

The director stopped dead in his tracks, turning sharply to eye the new patient.

"We're here to _help_…" He said, his tone abruptly hard. "not _punish_. But I warn you, right now, any show of disrespect towards this facility or its workers will _not_ be tolerated. Is that understood?"

The Joker looked unfalteringly back at him, for a moment his expression indiscernible. And then his features morphed in to an exaggerated look of hurt.

"Ahh, Jerry, I was just having a little _fun_."

The doctor didn't seem amused, glaring at the Joker with a look which would have made most anyone shift their eyes away.

But the Joker didn't flinch.

"Arkham is not a place to be used for yours or _anyone's _amusement…"

"I'm sure that's what you like to tell yourself." The Joker cut him short, and for the first time since he'd arrived, he saw anger flash in the doctor's eyes, and he smiled.

Jeremiah pierced the madman with his gaze, saying nothing for a long moment.

He was studying the Joker it seemed, already trying to analyze what little he'd said and done.

His lips pursed then and he breathed out.

"Right. The shower's then."

"But Jerry, I already _had _my shower today."

"It's procedure, for all new patients upon arrival to be given a shower, as well as undergo a physical checkup and examination. Keeps us in line with health codes and all that." He smiled suddenly. "You'll see that around _here_, Mr. Joker, we do things a bit _differently_."

"Well, I'm sure you and your _men _are eager to show me." The Joker grinned.

Jeremiah chuckled lightly.

"Indeed." He agreed. "We are."

/

Jeremiah had left the Joker to his orderlies.

He was sure they would have tried something, if he hadn't _just_ arrived and wasn't due to be examined immediately following the showers.

Of course, the term "showers" was a bit of a misnomer. There were no showerheads, like at county. Instead, they stripped him down, pushed him in to a 4'X6.5' stall and proceeded to spray him down with a high pressured water hose, with the water having been mixed with some kind of soap.

The pressure wasn't strong enough to knock him off his feet, but it was strong enough to sting badly.

They held it on him for a total of three, solid minutes.

By the end, his skin felt like it'd been set on fire, slightly reddened and irritated from the assault.

He wondered if this would be an every day kind of thing, or if it was simply reserved for incoming patients to, initially, get them thoroughly cleaned, and then to simply maintain that cleanliness from there, out.

He guessed it would be the former, for three reasons. Efficiency, control, and intimidation.

They would find out soon enough these sorts of things didn't work on him.

But so far, Ol' Jerry was living up to his promises.

They definitely _didn't_ do things the same here as they had at County.

He was given a new set of clothing, the same, orange color of the one he'd worn before, only instead of overalls, there was a separate, short sleeved shirt, which had the words "Arkham Asylum" printed on the back, and a pair of loose fitting pants and underwear. With that, he was given socks and soft, canvassed shoes with no rigidity to them and no laces.

Because of the last two months of his stay at County having been spent confined to his cell for almost 24 hours a day, and because he'd almost killed the resident barber, his hair was again long, slightly curled locks resting just at his shoulders.

They'd taken him out once a week to be shaved and have his nails clipped, but his hair remained untouched.

They thought it was too dangerous to have him around scissors, even though, when they'd had him out for grooming, they'd made sure his hands were cuffed behind him, and despite the fact he'd almost killed the last guy with the electric razors power cord, not clippers.

When they pulled him out of the stall, they dried him off themselves, roughly, like a dog, before tossing his new uniform at him and telling him to get dressed.

"Ya sure you should let me do it myself?" The Joker asked. "Jerry might not like you relinquishing control like that."

"Just get movin' clown boy."

"Ohh, an _ingénues_ insult delivered with im_pec_cable timinnng. Lemme guess, you went to _school_ for that, right…" The Joker's eyes drifted to the orderlies name tag. It read Theodore. "Teddy-Bear."

He smiled as anger flashed across the large man's face.

Oh yes indeedy, he was setting himself up for a _sever_ beating later on.

He could hardly wait.

/

Arkham's infirmary was smaller then the one at County. But then, so was the whole building. There were, after all, fewer mental patients then common, every day criminals prowling the streets, though to listen to GCN and other Gotham News programs, you'd never know it.

The fact was, most of the patients here weren't even criminals. The vast majority were simply men and women suffering from some psychological disorder, but more or less harmless.

Some had been committed by family, others still committed themselves.

Overall, the hospital held only six individuals who'd found themselves here due to illegal activities, three of whom were sex offenders, one other who'd done nothing more sever then property damage.

The other two were the Joker, just arrived, and former Arkham doctor, Dr. Jonathan Crane, who'd been committed after having tried to poison the water supply in the Narrows, and after he'd been discovered experimenting on his own patients, with some fear inducing toxin he'd created.

They were the only two, _high risk_ patients in the entire facility. As of now, in any event.

The Joker wondered if he would meet the former psychiatrist. He wanted to, for some reason. Maybe because, in a way, he'd predated his own appearance in Gotham as a so called "costumed criminal". At least, a _recognized_ costumed criminal. The Joker had already been pulling jobs within the city, in the get up he was known for, during that whole fiasco in the Narrows. They just hadn't been jobs big enough to catch anyone's attention.

That hadn't lasted long.

Either way, he figured they'd be keeping him far away from the other patient's in Arkham.

His talent for manipulation was something well documented at this point.

When they brought him in, he saw the two nurses who'd earlier helped greet him at the asylum entrance, standing by, looking less then confident.

They were watching him as though he were something diseased, their faces drawn tight and worried.

He smiled at them and simultaneously they looked away.

The orderlies were anything but gentle as they handled him to one of the beds.

"You know boys…" The Joker began. "I can _walk_ unassisteeed."

They didn't respond to his comment, instead spinning him round once they'd reached the bed, tightening their grip on his arms and lifting him up on to it.

The Joker glared at them in annoyance, not pleased with having been treated like some incompetent child.

"_Don't_ move." One of them ordered.

"And what if I _do_?" The Joker shot back, waving a hand in front of the man's face.

The orderlies looked beyond irritated, but did nothing as the two nurses were suddenly making their way towards them.

The Joker's attention was quickly drawn away from the men towards the two women as they came nearer.

His eyes scanned quickly over their name tags. Cynthia and Marion.

"Good morning girls." He greeted them with a grin.

They looked disgusted.

"_Lovely_." He thought, rolling his eyes.

"It's past noon." One of them, Cynthia, stated, her tone amusing with how it struggled to be hoity, but sounded more frightened.

"Is it now?" The Joker answered. "Well forgive me, _please_, for my ignoranccce."

No one said anything to that, and both women looked as if they might pass out at any given moment.

They were absolutely petrified.

They ought to be, he thought.

"So, uh, anyone wanna_ tell_ me why there's _two_ of you for only _one_ of me?" He asked.

There was a drawn out silence, until the other nurse, Marion, spoke up.

"It's procedure…" She said, her voice holding the slightest tremble. "that at least two RN's be present at all times in the infirmary."

"You mean… you aren't the _welcoming_ committee?" He looked around as if expecting some grand display to occur suddenly. "Don't tell me it's _these_ guys." He pointed his thumb at the orderlies. "Your funding can't be _that_ bad."

If looks could kill, the ones the men gave the Joker at that moment might have done it.

As it was, the two nurses said nothing to that, their own expressions a mix of fear, exasperation and confusion.

"We're here to perform a physical exam." Cynthia said, as if it weren't obvious.

"Ahhh…" The Joker grinned. "See if I'm up to _code_." He winked.

Cynthia cast her eyes down.

The Joker's eyes then wandered to around the room, resting on the only other two patients there.

He'd noticed them immediately upon entering, but only now took the time to observe them.

Both were women, and both unconscious, from what he could tell.

One had nothing overtly wrong with her. The Joker couldn't tell what the reason was for her being there. The other sported a nasty gash along her forehead, closed clean by stitches.

"What's with them?" He asked, nodding in their direction, at the other side of the room.

Both nurse's eyes went wide.

"That's none of your concern." Marion said.

The Joker frowned slightly, giving a shrug.

Cynthia looked nervously to Marion, and Marion stared back at her blankly for a moment before it became obvious she realized something and reached inside one of her uniform pockets, pulling from it some device.

The Joker watched all of this carefully.

"I-I'm going to have to take your temperature now." Marion stuttered, her skin going even more pale at the prospect of having to touch the madman.

"Where's the, uh, ther_mom_eter?" The Joker asked, eyeing the device the woman held.

"This is it." She answered. "It's… it's one of those ones you stick in to the ear."

The Joker just stared at her, saying nothing, and an awkward moment of silence past.

"Well, whatcha' waitin' for, sweet-cheeks?" He suddenly asked.

The nurse started, then stopped, then swallowed hard before moving closer to him, slowly.

He kept his eyes locked on her the entire time, and could see it was unnerving her greatly, an almost imperceptible tremor running through her hands as she got near enough to raise the thermometer.

The Joker's hair hung in long tendrils around his face, covering his ears, and Marion felt herself suck in her own breath when she realized she'd have to brush it out of the way.

"_Just do it_." She thought to herself. "_The orderlies will stop him if he tries anything_. _Just __do__ it_!"

And with that, she did.

His hair, to her shock, was actually _soft_.

She'd seen those videos of him, when he'd been terrorizing the city, and it had always looked so filthy, greasy.

She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised. Of course he would have been forced to clean it in the months since he'd been incarcerated.

But still, she found it hard to believe there was _anything_ about this man that could be described using the word "soft".

Pushing it from her mind, she reasoned it would be better to get this over and done with. If she couldn't even take his temperature, how did she expect to follow through on the rest of it?

Again to her surprise, it process was entirely painless.

He didn't protest in the least when she stuck the thermometers tip in his ear, didn't make any remarks even. And within a few moments, it was done, and the reading was normal.

She stepped away quickly, eyes darting to the small, digital screen.

"So how's it lookin' cutey?" The Joker asked. "Am I gonna make it or what?"

"It's fine." Marion answered.

"_It's_ fine. But what about _me_?" He started. "Most people say I'm a little bit _screw loose_, ya know?"

Marion looked as though she might lose her lunch, and so did Cynthia, neither of them saying anything as the former stepped up with a blood pressure cuff.

"I need to take your blood pressure." She said.

The Joker's brows rose and he smiled.

She was as nervous as Marion had been, but told herself if her colleague could do it, so could she. Besides, she didn't want to embarrass herself in front of the orderlies, knowing they would tease her for it endlessly.

So she reached out, lifting the short sleeve up over his shoulder and wrapping the cuff around his arm.

He watched her movements with what could only be called intense interest.

She tried to ignore this as she pumped the ball on the end of the air hose, keeping her eyes fixed on the monitor.

She waited anxiously for the results, exhaling the breath she'd been holding in when they finally popped up.

Quickly she undid the cuff and stepped back, the read out on that normal as well.

"All right." She breathed, her voice shaky. "Marion, I'm going to go check on the other two, okay?"

Marion looked at her wide eyed, her mouth opening to protest, bust she was cut short.

"Alright. I'll be right over here if you need me." She said quickly, and before Marion could even speak, she'd already started across the room.

The nurse watched her co-worker with a mix of astonishment and anger.

"_Unbelievable_!" She thought, shaking her head.

"She, uh, left you to the _wolf_, huh Marionnn?" She heard the Joker's voice and immediately stiffened, turning back around to find him staring at her.

That right there made her want to run with Cynthia across the room.

"_Just get it done Marion_. _Stop fooling around and get it done. There's no way he's going to be able to do anything anyway_."

She breathed in deeply, letting it go as she settled her gaze as best she could on the Joker.

"Help him down." She directed the orderlies. "We need to weigh and measure him."

The Joker slid off the table before the men could put their hands on him, but they were quick to surround him as Marion stepped inadvertently back.

"Just lightening the load for you boys." He grinned, even as they took him by the arms and pulled him roughly forward, towards the weight scale, the nurse leading the way.

"Stand with your back against this wall first." She pointed to a chart pasted flat against the wall, next to the scale, marked by various measurements. "Stand as straight as you can, with your head up."

The Joker wasn't even sure why she was directing her instructions to him when the orderlies decided to position him themselves, turning him around and pushing him back against the wall.

He slouched, his shoulders hunched forward, and Marion couldn't tell if he was doing so on purpose. He walked hunched, she'd noticed, so she supposed it could just be his natural stance. Either way, he hadn't listened. And now she was faced with the undesirable prospect of upsetting him.

"Stand straight please." She repeated, her voice quiet.

She worried that the Joker would be belligerent, but again she was taken by surprise when he stood as she asked, looking straight ahead; the top of his head meeting the 6'1" mark on the chart.

She wrote it down quickly, stepping back.

"Okay." Marion said. "Just step up there." She pointed with her pen towards the scale, and the Joker did as he was told again.

She couldn't even believe he was actually being cooperative. She wondered for how long it would last before the maniac exploded.

Once he was on, she moved to work it.

"You know, I don't think I've ever been weighed before." He noted as she balanced out the scale, watching her hands as she did it. "What am I _supposed_ to weigh?"

"You're tall." She answered. "And broad. Anywhere from 175 to 185 would be about right."

"And what's it say?" He asked.

"160.2." She answered after a moment, also marking it down. "You're underweight."

"That's what I get for skipping meals, hmm?" He grinned.

Marion glanced back to Cynthia, who was still pretending to busy herself with the two, unconscious patients.

She shook her head.

"Back to the bed." She said. She'd somehow gotten her voice under control at that point, and was doing her best to sound authoritative.

That's what she'd been told to do around the mentally ill, when she'd started here three years ago, to show them who was in charge, and to give them a sense of direction.

As it was, the orderlies seemed to be forcing most of the action, dragging the Joker back to the bed and again lifting him up on to it.

Through it all, Marion couldn't really tell if he was at all bothered by the manhandling or not. Besides a sly smirk or an exaggerated pout, he hadn't changed his expression much.

"If you could… lift up your shirt please." She began, hesitant.

Marion wasn't sure why she felt afraid. She'd performed countless physicals on countless patients, some who, so far, had been far more difficult then the Joker, and yet she'd never felt the kind of apprehension then that she was now.

She supposed it was because, from what she'd seen and heard of him, he was _beyond _what one could call violent. With everything he'd done, one could only really call him a monster.

With that in mind, Marion reasoned her uncertainty wasn't so unusual.

Still, just looking at him now, beyond the grotesque facial lacerations, he didn't appear as anything of the sort. He was handsome even, if not for the scars. And thin.

Marion knew of how the orderlies often treated violent patients, and she found herself wondering how the Joker was going to hold out against it, being underweight as he was.

She shook her head from that thought though. This man didn't deserve her pity.

And anyway, she had to get this done with.

She'd already recorded on to her chart the significant scar tissue running up from the corners of his mouth, on to his cheeks, and described how they appeared to have been caused by some jagged instrument, due to their unevenness and width, possibly a serrated knife, but more likely a piece of broken glass or something else sharp edged, but not straight and smooth.

It was impossible to tell exactly, without the Joker telling them.

Marion had felt slightly queasy at the way the lacerations shifted and pulled when he smiled or frowned, the scar tissue fighting against the movement.

She wondered if it felt weird.

"Hey, Mariooon…" She was snapped from her thoughts by the sound of a voice calling her name.

Looking up, she saw the Joker staring straight at her, his brows raised in amusement.

The look inexplicably frightened her and she cast her eyes away.

"You want me to lift it up or _off_?"

God, she didn't even like the fact he knew her name and subconsciously she folded her arms, over her nametag.

He noticed.

"O-off." She stumbled. "Lift it off please."

His lips curled up in a slight smirk.

"Good." He said. "I need you to specify sweetheart. In my line of work, clarity is a _must_." He looked at her pointedly.

And again she looked away, his smirk growing as he grabbed the hem of his shirt and began lifting it up.

Marion's curiosity got the better of her as her eyes traveled up, and she found them going slightly wide at what she saw.

His skin was pale all over, his body as thin as she'd suspected, gangly, and absolutely _marred _by further scar tissue.

She could tell right off which were bullet wounds, and which were knife wounds. Others still she couldn't place what had caused the damage, only that they were gnarled and ugly, like the ones on his face, and imagining whatever might have caused it made her feel ill.

Her gaze lingered over him for only a brief, few moments before she couldn't stand it anymore and she brought her eyes back to her chart, beginning to record the state of his physical condition.

The whole time he watched her, taking in her reaction.

It was typical of people when they first saw his body, to stare wide eyed for some seconds and then to look away, troubled.

People weren't used to seeing someone who'd endured so much physical trauma and still were _alive_.

The Joker often wondered himself about how it was he hadn't yet been killed, with all the dangerous situations he'd placed himself in over the years. Situations anyone else would have called insane, but which he'd thrown himself in to with vigor.

It was the sort of thing he thrived off of.

When other men would be sobbing and pissing themselves, those were the exact moments he would feel most excited.

The moments when he couldn't, for the life of him, stop laughing.

One only had to look at the damage his body bore to know he'd paid the price for it.

But he didn't care.

He didn't care at all.

It was only a game. And what game without risk was actually _fun_?

None that he could name.

Dying was nothing. It was inevitable.

And yet, so many feared it more then anything.

That was something the Joker had never been able to understand. The _fear_ of death. The _need_ to survive. To prolong your existence for as long as possible, even at the cost of _living_.

The Joker had never had that problem. He'd never been afraid to die. At times even, he'd _wished_ for it, when he'd thought it would win him the game. Like at the hospital, with Harvey Dent, or when he'd dared Batman to run him down in the street.

He'd _wanted_ death in those moments, could practically _taste_ it on his tongue. It had _invigorated_ him, the prospect of ceasing to be.

As had his glimpsing the true nature of his would be opponents, their _willingness_ to kill, and their _desire_. Their betrayal of all they claimed to believe and worship with just their _thoughts _of ending him.

It excited him to no end.

There was nothing to fear in death, the Joker felt. There was nothing wrong or bad about it.

It just _was_.

And like everything that just was, it only made sense to accept it; to embrace it.

And that he did.

Just as he used people's fear of it as a tool against them.

There was no _greater _weapon to be found.

He smiled to think of the times when people had tried to use that very weapon again him, and there'd been many, and how utterly bemused they'd been when it hadn't worked.

The Joker knew, in that sense, he in a way defied logic. At least, _their _logic, because to _them_, survival was the epitome of priorities, the number one reason for almost all their actions.

But to him, survival had always taken a _far_ back seat to so _many _things, not the least of which was his amusement, or the chance to turn the mirror on the so called "good" people of the world, and show them all who they really were.

And if the Joker had learned anything in life, it was that people feared what they couldn't relate to, what they couldn't understand. So their confusion and subsequent terror at his being so totally unfazed by their threats was, he knew, to be expected.

He watched as Marion timidly glanced back up at him, her eyes scanning over him, writing down what she saw.

Nervously she moved around him, holding in a sharp gasp as she took in his back, equally as scarred as his abdomen and chest had been, exit wounds from bullets and knifes, and long, vertical lacerations which she could only assume had been caused by some sort of whipping.

She momentarily had to look away again, covering her mouth with her hand.

She'd never admit it aloud, or even to herself, but in that moment, she almost felt _sad_ for the madman.

She wondered how it was he was able to move properly with all that skin damage.

"_Maybe that's why he's so hunched when he walks_?" She thought.

She shook her head, not believing she was thinking these things, after all the atrocities he'd committed, and went back to recording his condition.

When she finished, she placed the clipboard aside, on a nearby table, and took her stethoscope from around her neck, positioning it in her ears.

"I'm going to listen to your heart and lungs now." She informed. "I need you to take a deep breath and then release when I tell you."

"What fun." The Joker spoke, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

A moment later and he felt the cold metal of the stethoscope press against his back and heard Marion instruct him to breath in.

He did, releasing it as she told him and repeating as she moved the instrument from one spot to another.

It took only a minute for her to finish before moving around to his front, placing the stethoscope on his chest and doing the same, writing down afterwards that everything sounded normal.

She did a few more things from there, checking his eyes and ears, as well as he reflexes.

She was still loath to touch him, her hesitance to do so obvious, but it wasn't as if she could refuse, and for whatever reason, much to her relief, he hadn't even been marginally uncooperative thus far.

"When were you born?" She finally asked.

The Joker smiled.

"Don't know." He answered.

"You don't know the date you were born?" Marion sounded shocked.

The Joker shook his head.

"Nope."

"Do you know roughly how old you are though?"

Again he shook his head.

She sighed, scribbling something down on her chart before continuing.

"Is there a history of mental illness in your family?" She went on.

"_Insanity_ is nothing more then a social _construct_ to help identify the deviant." The Joker answered, looking hard in to her.

Marion blinked, her expression confused.

"E-excuse me?"

The Joker sighed now, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

"Never mind. Listen sister, prooobably, but it's kinda like that age thing. I can't really say for sure."

"You can't say for sure…"

"That there's been _other_ crazies in my relations."

She stared at him for a moment before again writing something down.

She didn't even know why she was asking him anything, beyond protocol.

"Any allergies to medication?"

"Everything." The Joker answered, shaking his head. "There's not a damn thing I can take without experiencing a, uh, _sever _reaction."

Marion looked at him incredulously.

"You can't be allergic to _everything_." She stated.

"Says you." The Joker countered. "I can't even take an aspirin without it seriously disrupting my equilibrium."

"Are you telling me the truth?" The nurse asked, her voice laced with uncertainty.

"Of course." The Joker replied smoothly. "Why would I lie?"

Again she looked at him with disbelief, but his expression remained serious, and she actually found herself unable to tell if he was being honest or not.

She didn't bother asking, instead making a note of what he'd said and deciding to let his doctor work it out.

Looking over the chart, Marion again found herself struck by how _normal_ it all seemed.

Caucasian male.

6'1"

160.2 lb.

Date of Birth: Unknown.

Estimated to be between 25 and 30 years of age.

Patient bears sever facial scarring, as well as sever scarring over the chest, abdomen and back.

Everything seemed normal except, of course, that last part, and the part about him not knowing his own age.

"You can put that back on." The nurse nodded to the discarded shirt.

"Aw, but Mariooon, we're a quarter of the way there. Why stop now?" The Joker leered at her.

She glanced away.

"Just put it back on please."

He shrugged, taking up the discarded piece of clothing and pulling it on over his head.

"The orderlies will show you to your room now. At two o'clock, you will be brought to meet your doctor. Your routine schedule will be laid out for you then."

"Sound's like fun, beautiful." He smiled.

She didn't bother trying to respond, turning away as the orderlies took hold of the asylums newest resident, pulling him down off the bed.

"Like I said boys, I can do it myself." The Joker again protested to their apparent need to have their hands all over him. "I can even tie my own shoelaces, which I'd show you if I, uh, _had_ any."

"Just get movin' clown!" One of them barked and suddenly, he felt the back of their hand slap against the back of his head.

That had made him mad, and in the next instant, the Joker had wriggled free of their hold, taking them by surprise, and latched on to the wrist of the orderly who'd hit him, breaking it in one, quick snap.

The man quickly collapsed, a scream tearing from his throat from the pain.

"Y-you br-broke my wrist!" He cried.

Marion and Cynthia had each turned in alarm at the sudden shrieking, their eyes having gone wide and their skin draining of color at the sight before them.

"So I did." The Joker smirked.

In the moment following, the other men had finally regained their composure, and they didn't wait a second more before they were on the madman, forcing him to the floor, Marion already coming towards them with a needle at the ready.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7:**

"Hello Joker." A man most probably in his fifties had stood from behind an expensive looking, oak desk. He was tall, with thick, grey hair and glasses perched on the end of his nose.

The very _picture_ of _distinguished_ doctor.

He looked to the two orderlies, stood behind the Joker, who sat in a flat backed, wooden chair, across from the desk, his wrists and ankles cuffed.

They'd hauled him in, none to gently the doctor had noted, and forced him in to the seat roughly.

Stevens displayed a cast over his right wrist, and he scowled at the Joker with unhidden hatred.

"You may excuse yourselves gentlemen." He said to them.

They looked at him bemusedly, and then at one another, before Stevens spoke up.

"You sure Sir?"

"Absolutely." The doctor responded. "There's no need to worry. I've got the panic button, should I need your assistance."

Again the men looked uneasily to one another.

"If you say so Sir." They turned to leave. "We'll be right outside this door."

The doctor nodded towards them, waiting until they'd opened the door and closed it behind them before he himself sat, bringing his eyes to his newest patient, smiling faintly.

"I'm Dr. Bartholomew." He began. "I've been assigned to be your psychiatrist."

The Joker said nothing, didn't even regard him as his eyes had drifted off to the side.

"We were supposed to meet yesterday, but I'm afraid you caused quite the stir in the infirmary."

Again, no response.

"Do you maybe want to tell me why you broke that man's wrist?"

His new patient wasn't talking, and Dr. Bartholomew regarded him closely then, having Marion's medical chart spread out before him on his desk.

He'd been going over it before the Joker had arrived, trying to familiarize himself with the patient's physical condition. More then people realized, a patient's physical condition often held clues as to their mental condition, and the doctor wanted to be as prepared as possible with this one.

Still, reading the chart hadn't quite prepared him for what he saw now.

The Joker was an _unusual_ looking man, to say the least. And though Dr. Bartholomew had seen news footage of him, and his processing photographs, it still wasn't enough to give an accurate picture of what he looked like in person. Tall and thin, with unruly, blonde hair and incredibly dark, but somehow vividly clear eyes. And the scars stretching from the corners of his lips, jagged and gnarled and painful looking.

Dr. Bartholomew of course realized he probably couldn't feel anything there, the nerves in that area dead from being severed. Still, it didn't stop them from appearing as if they might hurt, so ugly and twisted as they were, marring what otherwise would have been a handsome face.

Dr. Bartholomew thought, if not for the ravaged flesh and distant eyes, the Joker might even look innocent, being so young.

He doubted he was yet 30.

"If you haven't been told, we'll be meeting four days a week, every afternoon, from 2:00 to 3:00."

…

The doctor gave a quiet sigh, looking down at the medical sheet.

"Were you able to sleep last night? I understand it can be hard adjusting to new surroundings. But I heard a sedative was used…"

At this the Joker finally turned towards him, staring straight in to his face.

But still he said nothing.

"You understand, I hope, because you attacked an ord…"

"Bartholomew?" The Joker spoke suddenly, cutting him off. "That's an interesting name Doc."

"Oh, so you _were_ listening."

"Like the, uh, _Apostle_, right?"

The doctor looked, for a moment, mildly surprised.

"Yes, in fact." He answered. Then paused. "It's interesting that you would know that. I've never had a patient who did, or at least, one who bothered to mention it. Are you by any chance a religious man?"

The Joker broke out in laughter, and Dr. Bartholomew was only able to watch as he carried on for nearly a minute, his body bent forward with the force of his own hysterics.

His laugh, the psychiatrist noted, was every bit as horrific sounding in person as it had been in those videos he'd seen on the news, cruel and uninhibited, putting him immediately on edge.

"Wh… what do _you_ think?" The Joker finally managed, wiping at his eyes with his thumbs.

Bartholomew looked unamused, not saying anything for several, long seconds.

Finally he brought his eyes again to the medical chart.

"You find that amusing?" He asked.

"What's that they say Doc? God _fearing_ Christian?" The Joker bent forward, looking at the psychiatrist with raised brows. "Do I strike you as the kind of guy who'd _fear_ God's judgment?"

Bartholomew shrugged.

"Well I don't know you." He answered. "Not yet. So I couldn't say. That's why I asked. And obviously you're not completely ignorant to the history of Christianity, not if you knew the origin of my name."

The Joker smiled at him.

"But you know of my actions, doctor." He said. "And actions, as they say, speak louder then wordssss."

"Yes, well…"

"Bartholomew comes from the Aramaic word _bar-Tôlmay_. Son of Tolmay. Just because I know a things _history_ doesn't mean I believe in it."

"So you've studied the Bible then?" The psychiatrist questioned.

"I read a lot Doc."

"But if you don't believe in God or Christianity…"

"I never said that."

Bartholomew stopped, staring at the patient.

"You do believe then?"

"I never said that either." The Joker replied. "It's all your own assumptions."

The doctor looked incredulous for the moment, and finally he breathed in through his nose, releasing it slowly.

"Alright. So what do you believe?" He asked after a few more moments of silence.

"I belieeeve…" The Joker again grinned, leaning forward slightly. "In the reliability of human nature."

"I see." Dr. Bartholomew said. "And in what way, would you say, is human nature reliable?"

"In every way. Listen, Doc., am I ever gonna get to walk around this place, or are you gonna keep me in lock down 24 hours a day?"

"That depends on your behavior Joker." Bartholomew answered. "If you continue to act as you did yesterday in the infirmary…"

"But Doc!" The Joker's expression shifted in to one of exaggerated hurt. "I was fully cooperating! It was that slab of meat Stevens who hit me first!"

The doctor looked somewhat surprised.

"Stevens hit you?"

The Joker nodded.

"In the back of the head too. That's a coward's move, Doc."

Bartholomew seemed to be trying to gage the Joker's sincerity, staring hard at him for a moment.

"You broke the man's wrist Joker." He finally said. "Even if you're telling the truth, surely you see the problem here."

"Self defense Doc. Even _killing_ someone's considered permissible by _you _people, _if _it's in self defense. But I guess that only applies to those of us who fall in line with the rulessss, hmm?"

"I think you might have used _excessive_ force." The psychiatrist argued.

The Joker shook his head.

"But what if his hitting me from behind caused my skull to fracture, or made me lose my balance and fall, breaking my neck?"

"I highly doubt…"

"But you don't _know_ Doc., do you? Those things are still a possibility, aren't they?"

Dr. Bartholomew's mouth had twisted in to a frown by then.

"I suppose anything's possible, but…"

"So _see_? Self defense, because _anything's_ possible." The Joker smiled.

The psychiatrist couldn't tell whether or not the Joker was even telling the truth about having been attacked. No one had mentioned that as the cause of his outburst, but Bartholomew knew that the asylum orderlies sometimes were rougher with patients then they needed to be.

The Joker was, doubtless, unstable and manipulative and, of course, his word couldn't ever be taken at face value. But if he was telling the truth, for one reason or another, Dr. Bartholomew couldn't think up a counter argument to what he was saying. It was as though the Joker had taken his own words and turned them back on him, leaving him bemused.

He decided then would be a good time to change the subject.

"Right then." Bartholomew said. "Why don't we talk about your name a little bit?"

The Joker rolled his eyes.

"Ya know, a little _originality_ never hurt anyone Doc."

"I'm just curious." Bartholomew went on. "That's obviously not the name you were given."

"Observant." The Joker's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"It's an interesting title choice." The doctor continued. "Any particular reason for it?"

"Well wadda you think Doc.?" The Joker grinned, shrugging. "I'm not gonna sit here telling _bad jokes_."

"I'd like for you to tell me." The psychiatrist answered.

"Sorry Barthonator., but that's just something you're gonna have to _figure_ out on. your. own."

The doctor's brow twitched at that and for a few moments, he said nothing.

"Would you be willing to tell me your real name?" He finally breathed.

"That is my real name Doc." The Joker said flatly.

"But it's not the name you were born with."

"I wasn't born with any name." The Joker shook his head.

The doctor looked curious now.

"Surely though, you were _given_ a name at some point."

"Whether I was or not Doc, that's not the _point_. My name's as real as any otherrr."

"So you don't want to tell me." Bartholomew answered. "That's alright, we'll get back to it another ti…"

"No, no, no, no _Doc_." The Joker again shook his head. "You're ass_uming_ again." He smiled. "So certain I would know what name was, uh, _given_ to me when you aren't even certain I know if I was _given_ a name at all."

The Joker very nearly laughed at the look of bewilderment on the doctor's face, but he only smiled more broadly as he watched realization gradually take its place.

The Joker was doing it again, Bartholomew noted, twisting the discussion to fit his agenda, whatever that might be.

He'd dealt with manipulative personalities before, but none so subtle as the Joker was. Usually he could spot when a patient was trying to shift the direction of a conversation, and so prevent it, but twice already the Joker had done so, and more then that, he'd turned it around on him, making it seem as though he were the one whose thinking was in need of correcting. And Bartholomew realized, with some dismay, that he hadn't even noticed until it had already happened.

His new patient was good, the doctor would have to give him that. Obviously intelligent. But, he was mentally ill, and Dr. Bartholomew knew from experience, no matter how intelligent one may be, if they suffered from a mental disorder, they automatically were at a disadvantage, provided they were dealing with someone who understood their illness.

The Joker was used to dealing with people who didn't know a thing about him or how his mind worked. People who would be too frightened by his presence and appearance to rationalize he was simply another human being, deranged though he might be.

And that's what Bartholomew was there for. Eventually, he would learn more about the Joker, and as he did, he would form a better understanding of what exactly was wrong with him, and any mind games the Joker might try to play, he would effectively be able to counter.

The psychiatrist smiled at the thought.

He did so love that part of the job. Deconstructing a patients mind and unraveling them from inside out. To watch as they…

"Doc.? Hey Doc.?" He was snapped from his thoughts by the sound of the Joker's voice.

"Yes?" He said after a moment, blinking.

"You were spacing out there Doc." The Joker grinned.

"So I was." The psychiatrist chuckled lightly. And then he looked down to his desk, pulling open one of its drawers.

"Joker, I'd like for you to try something." He took something from the drawer and placed it on the desk in front of him. It was a cube, made up of several, different colored and smaller squares.

The Joker eyed it for a moment.

"What's that?" He finally asked.

Dr. Bartholomew looked surprised.

"You don't know?" He asked.

The Joker shook his head, continuing to stare at the thing.

"You've never seen a Rubik's Cube before?" Still the psychiatrist sounded taken aback.

And still the Joker shook his head no.

"Huh. Well, this should be interesting then." He picked up the cube. "It's largely thought of as a child's toy, but I've found it's a good test for gauging a person's ability for recognizing patterns quickly. You see, you turn each, individual strip until you've matched up all six sides." He demonstrated how it worked, the Joker watching intently. "Would you like to try it?"

For a few moments, the Joker continued to keep his eyes on the cube, until finally he looked up at the psychiatrist and shrugged.

Bartholomew smiled, placing the toy closer to him.

"Give it a try." He said. "It's tougher then it looks, believe me."

He hoped the Joker would have the patience to stick with it and not grow frustrated like most of his patients eventually did.

It would be interesting to see if he could solve it at all, considering how, apparently, he'd never seen one.

For several seconds the Joker didn't move, just looking at the object, but eventually he lifted his shackled hands and reached out for it, slowly.

"Take your time." Bartholomew said, watching him go for it at a sloth's pace. He thought the Joker might be feeling hesitant over the prospect of being judged, and so he tried to reassure him. "There's no pressure. Just have fun with it."

At this the Joker paused, looking up at him.

The doctor gave him a nod as if to encourage him.

After a few moments, the patient again brought his eyes to the object and a second later, he'd taken it up in his hands.

Bartholomew smiled, checking his watch before bringing his gaze to his notepad. He felt he'd talked with the Joker enough for today, but there still was half an hour more before the session ended, and the Rubik's cube, he thought, should keep him occupied for the remainder, giving him a chance to concentrate on his notes and observations.

He'd barely begun writing, however, before he heard a light clunk on the desk, and looking up, his eyes went wide. There sat the cube, completed, all six sides matched to the same color.

His eyes moved up to the Joker, who sat staring at him, his face expressionless. And then he looked to his watch and realized, with alarm, that not more then 15 seconds had past since the Joker had taken the toy up and, already, he'd solved it.

He looked back to the patient, his mouth hung slightly ajar.

"How did you…" He began, wondering in his mind if the Joker had somehow cheated. But that was impossible.

"Got any other games?" The Joker answered, seeming bored. "I thought you said it was tough?"

The doctor couldn't believe it, reaching out and taking the Rubik's cube in his own hands.

"You… said you've never seen one of these before?" He managed to ask through his own astonishment.

"Nope, sorry Doc. Got anything else?" He asked again.

Bartholomew didn't answer for a moment, just staring back.

"Cat got your tongue Doc.?" The Joker leaned forward, growing impatient.

The psychiatrist shook his head.

"I'm sorry, it's just…" He looked down at the toy. "Do it again." He said.

"Eh?"

"Do it again." Bartholomew went on. "I want to see you do it."

And then he began to rearrange the cube, so that all sides were again mismatched.

"Ah, Dooooc, you just ruined _all_ my hard work." The Joker complained.

"I want to see you do it." The doctor repeated, pushing the cube back.

The Joker audibly sighed, blowing air past his lips.

"I don't know what the point is…" He mumbled, grabbing hold of the toy.

"Wait just a moment." Bartholomew stopped him, looking down at his watch again. "Okay. Go."

The Joker shrugged and Bartholomew watched as the Joker proceeded to turn each strip, one by one.

His hands weren't quick at it, like those whiz kids you saw on TV, the one's who'd obviously practiced doing the thing over and over. The Joker, clearly, had never done any such thing. He almost handled it awkwardly even. But what the doctor realized was, though his hands moved at a regular pace, he never once made a mistake. He turned each strip in the exact right direction each time, and within ten turns, he again had all sides matching.

Bartholomew looked down at his watch.

12 seconds.

The Joker set the cube back down, looking suddenly exasperated. 

"Happy Doc.?" He asked.

The psychiatrist said nothing for a moment, and then finally he managed.

"That's remarkable."

"Uh, _what _Doc.?" The Joker moved his eyes around. "The fact you just gave me the most _boring _toy in all of existence or that you look like you just saw the Zeppelin come crashing down?"

"Do… Do you even realize what you just did?" Bartholomew finally asked.

"Uh, yeah." The Joker looked incredulous. "I moved a bunch of colorsss around so that they all _matched_."

"You… well, you have to understand Joker…" The doctor continued to reign in his shock. "Most people can't solve the Rubik's Cube even after _hours_ of trying. You tell me you've never even seen one before and you solve it in 12 seconds. You must realize how incredible that is."

Again the Joker shrugged.

"Well, what can I say Doc., I'm an incredible kind of guy."

And then he smiled.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8:**

They weren't letting the Joker out of his cell. Not outside of bringing him to the showers and the one time so far he'd been brought to see that doctor.

The cafeteria and rec. room were off limits to him, apparently.

He was placed in the "violent" ward, in which only three other patients were held, none of whom he recognized.

He'd been hoping to see Jonathan Crane there, but supposedly, despite the former psychiatrist's high risk status, he wasn't considered violent enough to be relegated here.

"_Figures_." The Joker thought bitterly to himself.

Not that it would have mattered. He'd thought maybe he could talk the other patients in to hurting or killing themselves, just for something to do, but the cells down here were padded and sound proofed, and under no circumstances was he allowed interaction with anyone outside the orderlies, nurses and doctors. Obviously, they knew his track record, and how most of the men he'd employed on the outside had once been residents of this very asylum.

As if any of this would actually stop him from getting out. All he needed was some time, to figure things out, and he would be gone from here.

The orderlies hadn't even come yet to beat him, which he wasn't entirely shocked by. He'd broken that one fool's wrist, and surely that had put the others off from trying anything, at least for a while. It was doubtful that most patients ever actually fought back.

But when they did come, and he knew they would, it would be in a group, and they would be scared.

He guessed it wasn't really any different from when he'd been in solitary, back at County, or the last few months of his stay there.

He could tolerate boredom better then most might have thought, but then, if they were going to keep him confined like this the _entire_ time, he wasn't quite sure how he would handle it. A few months was one thing. Six, seven, eight months without any kind of destruction, that might actually start to wear at him, and it was going to be their problem when they found out what a bored Joker could do.

His mind went to the session he'd had with Dr. Bartholomew. It was ridiculous how excited the man had gotten over his solving that toy so quickly. There was nothing to it and the Joker concluded that anyone who wasn't able to solve it in a similar amount of time must be a complete idiot. But nonetheless, Bartholomew had seemed amazed and told him that on Friday, he would be taking an IQ test.

The Joker had protested, not exactly relishing the idea of sitting there for however long it would take, filling out answers on some dumb test sheet, only for the idiot to glom again at the results. He was more interest in reversing the process on the Doc. Psychiatrists had always made him laugh. Looking for certain patterns they'd been _taught_ to look for, and then making a diagnosis based on the glaring behaviors. They had no idea how to actually read someone. It was the subtle things which would give you away.

If they were presented with a mind that didn't fit in to the little categories they'd already versed themselves in, if they found themselves confronted by someone they hadn't prepared for, then it all fell apart and they, inevitably, wound up at a lose.

That's what always happened whenever they'd tried to diagnose him.

No, they didn't know how to read anyone. They didn't have any real insight, any understanding of the human mind or about the _nature_ of people.

And they sure as hell didn't know how to _talk_ to anyone.

It wasn't a mystery why Arkham had yet to actually "cure" any of its patients.

Everyone in Gotham knew a legitimate clean bill of health and a release from the asylum didn't go hand in hand.

One needn't look farther then the Joker's own crew to realize Arkham had been setting people loose who still very much were suffering from some type of mental disorder.

They had no choice, really. What with their limited budget and restricted space.

Like he'd told Batman, they were going to have to start doubling up at the rate the cities inhabitants were losing their minds.

Though he guessed, if they ever did catch Batman, which they _wouldn't_, he was the only person they'd actually let share a cell with him. Firstly because, secretly, they'd be hoping the vigilante would kill him, secondly because Batman was probably the only guy capable of surviving when trapped alone in a 10'X10' room with the Joker.

Thinking about the Batman was altogether distracting, the Joker realized, when a group of orderlies walked in to his cell and he failed to notice until one of them spoke.

"Up clown boy! We're goin' to the showers."

The Joker reclined his head back, looking up at the four men from his cot.

"Well that hardly makes sense boys, if it makes sense at all." He said. "Didn't I, uh, already _have _my shower this morningggg?"

One of them smirked. The Joker's eyes moved to his nametag.

Russell.

"Yeah, well, change of plans. Now get up."

The Joker grinned back now.

He knew what this was. Of course he knew.

"Makes clean up easier, huh boys? When you've got a source of waterrrr."

Russell, Steven's, Theo and some other guy the Joker hadn't seen before looked, for a moment, glaringly uncomfortable, hesitating, before finally coming in on him, grabbing him by his shirt and arms and pulling him roughly to his feet.

"Just get movin' freak-show." Russell's hissed, shoving the Joker's shoulder from behind.

"Brilliant Russell." The Joker answered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe I should hire you, hmm? You could write my routine for me. Waddya say? After all, I never _was_ too good with _jokes_."

He got no response from the orderly this time, other then their yanking his hands behind his back and cuffing his wrists.

He found himself being dragged then to the shower's, otherwise known as the _pressure room_, this one being on the lower levels. Another convenient way of keeping him from contact with other inmates. Everyone at this level, after all, was locked up nearly 24 hours a day, just the same as he.

The stall where they washed him was just slightly smaller then his room, and when they reached it, he was pushed in, the four men following closely behind.

He turned to face them, smiling.

"So what's it gonna be boys?" He questioned. "Rape, mutilation, indecent exposure to these _virgin _eyes?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, you faggot?" Theo said, his lip curling is disgust.

"With you Teddy bear…" The Joker replied. "Only with you." And then he puckered his lips, making a loud, kissing noise before succumbing to laughter.

"Sick freak…" Theo muttered, turning away.

Russell came towards the Joker.

"Turn around." He ordered.

"What for?" The Joker asked.

"Just turn around or we'll make you!"

The Joker stared at the man for a long moment, his expression bored. And then he shrugged, turning. A second later and he felt the handcuffs being undone.

"Ohhh, ho, ho…" He began to turn. "You haven't grown _balls_, surlyyy…"

He was given his answer as he came fully around and only a moment later he felt the short sleeve of his shirt pushed up and a sharp prick against his arm.

His eyes darted to the spot immediately, just in time to see Russell pulling the syringe away.

"Of course not." The Joker muttered, his gaze moving slowly back to the men.

Russell smiled smugly at him, the others standing back, their faces frozen both in dread and fascination.

"Sweet dreams, clown boy." The orderly said, and only a moment later, the Joker felt the room spinning and his limbs grow heavy, followed soon after by them giving way completely, him collapsing to the ground as the world went dark.

/

When he awoke, he was back in his room, dumped unceremoniously on to the cot.

His body burned.

Not in the sense that it felt on fire, but in the sense that the pain was _deep_, running well below the surface of his skin, in to his _bones_.

He didn't need to pull his shirt up to know, at that moment, he probably more closely resembled a plumb then anything else.

It wouldn't have been the first time in his life. Far from it. He was certain. Those movie-reel memories again. Flashing in front of his eyes, giving him snippets of some story he was meant to piece together. Though he never really tried, too busy dreaming of people and the world and beyond all that.

Still, what he _could_ see, sometimes, came vividly, and loudly, and sometimes he could even _feel_ it. He could feel himself being beat, could see the unfocused figures of men, some bringing their fists down, others brandishing pipes, chains, bats, he wasn't even sure. But he could _feel_ it. Those blows were made by something more then flesh.

So no, the state he now found himself in wasn't something _new_.

Still, it made sitting up difficult. Though in the end he managed just fine.

"That was a cowards move boys…" He spoke softly to himself, remembering how they'd stuck him with some kind of sedative. He'd gone unconscious and they'd obviously had their fun. He would have had his too, if he'd been able to experience it, but apparently his breaking Stevens wrist put them off so much they'd felt it necessary to put him under before braving an assault.

The jerks.

What fun was that?

He shrugged.

It didn't matter. They'd grow bored with their inability to elicit a response and do away with drugging him, eventually. And _then_ they'd get a response alright, just not the one they'd be expecting, or hoping for.

He did lift up his shirt, and sure enough, his skin was bruised a dark purple, spreading over almost the entirety of his torso, and he was sure his back.

Bringing his fingers to his stomach, he pushed the tips of them against a particularly nasty patch, giggling quietly as waves of pain coursed through him.

People were the most brutal animal.

Society tried to mask the true nature of human beings, but it would surface, when they thought no one was looking, like here, at the asylum, or when in groups, and they felt safety in numbers, safe in the notion of there being no singular blame to assign. When they thought they wouldn't be caught. It was only the fear of that and the promise of being punished that kept them from doing "bad" things.

People were hypocrites.

That's what he hated about them most of all, he thought. Their hypocrisy.

It made him sick.

They didn't really _believe_ in the things they said they did, they didn't have the strength of their so called convictions.

He knew. He knew what their _code_ entailed, what it was actually made up of.

Rules to help ensure their survival. That's all it was. The laws they governed themselves by weren't _inherent_, they weren't _born_ with any sort of distinction of what was _right _and what was _wrong_. No, those things were _conditioned_ in to them, taught to them so that they would be more easily controlled. And the fools followed the rules because they actually bought in to the absurd belief that those rules would somehow _save_ them.

That was something he loved. The look of absolute _surprise _on people's faces when they realized they were going to die. Like they couldn't believe it was actually going to happen. Like they couldn't fathom the concept.

It made him laugh.

And that's when morality went right out the window. That's when questions of good and bad, right and wrong became obsolete; when all that mattered was their survival. He couldn't recall the number of people who he'd seen _beg_, who'd promised to do any and everything if only he'd let them live.

They told him he was ugly. But then so were they. They just couldn't admit it. At least he could. At least he wasn't a hypocrite.

And they called him crazy. Why? Because he saw the utter falsehood of their doctrine, of their laws and boundaries and their _rules_. Now _that_ was a bad joke. He wasn't crazy. He was the only one who was sane. The only one who saw the reality of things. Who saw the truth.

It was the rest of them who were fucking _insane_. Too insane to see it.

Because, after all, wasn't that the very _definition_ of insanity. The inability to differentiate fantasy from reality?

It was them who were crazy.

Not him.

His mind swirled with these things, forgetting completely his physical pain, when the door to his cell opened, three of the four orderlies from before appearing.

The Joker looked up at them and grinned.

"Back for more boys? You know, it would be, uh, _advantageous_ for _all_ if you would only learn to quit while you were aheeead."

Russell's frowned.

"Time for your session." He said. And then he came closer, bending down closer to the inmates face. "And if you tell anyone about what happened…" He said, his voice just barely above a whisper. "I promise, you'll be sorry."

The Joker's grin widened.

"And what _did _happen _Ruffles_?" He asked, his voice full with mock confusion. "It isn't as though I _should_ know, right? Considering you drugged me and all." And then he laughed. "Don't worry Barbeque, I won't tell. I don't want the fun to end _just_._yet_."

Russell said nothing to that, though his expression was one of clear displeasure as he reached for the Joker, dragging him up, Steven's and the new guy coming behind, helping to cuff the madman's hands in front.

"Get goin'." He was ordered, pushed from the back, out of the cell.

This was all very strange. Last he remembered, it had been Thursday. His session with Dr. Bartholomew wasn't until Friday. Had he been out for nearly a full 24 hours? If so, that displeased him immensely. He didn't _like_ to lose days.

He would have to assume though that that's what had happened, since he wasn't about to actually _ask_ one of the cretins.

/

The walk to Bartholomew's office was uneventful, but the not-so-good doctor seemed as enthused as ever when his patient was brought in.

"_Gently_." He said, his voice hastened as he watched the orderlies push the Joker in to the chair. "My patient's are not to be _manhandled_. I thought I'd made that clear!"

Russell's looked up briefly, then away again as he muttered an apology.

Bartholomew eyed him with irritation before nodding.

"You may go." He ordered coldly, watching as the orderly nodded in return, turning to leave, the two others following behind.

He waited until the door had closed before bringing his eyes to his patient, who he noted held a wry smile.

"Good morning Joker." The doctored greeted, taking his own seat.

So he _did_ lose a full day, almost.

His eyes shifted sideways.

Now he was really pissed.

"You were smiling about something." Bartholomew interrupted.

The Joker looked back to him, this time expressionless.

The psychiatrist looked expectant, as if he expected the Joker to explain.

He didn't.

Finally, Bartholomew cleared his throat, looking down at a stack of papers sitting before him on his work desk.

"How are you feeling this morning?" He asked, deciding to dismiss the awkward moment.

At this the Joker again smiled.

"Just peachy Doc." He answered. "And how about yourself?"

The Doctor smiled in return.

"I'm fine Joker. Thank you."

"I'd say you're _decent _Doc. But _fine_ might be stretching it."

The psychiatrist looked momentarily confused, staring at his patient with a questioning gaze.

"It's a _joke _Doc." The Joker said.

"Oh." Bartholomew said, blinking, looking down at his notebook, beginning to flip through it. "Didn't you say you weren't going to be making jokes?"

"I said _bad_ jokes Doc. I thought that one was pretty good."

"I see." Bartholomew answered. "Well, as I told you during our first session, I planned on administering an Intelligence Quotient exam to you today."

"I can't wait." The Joker said, rolling his eyes up.

"I want you to understand Joker, there is _no_ pressure here. You can take as long as it is you require. It won't affect your score. As it is, your score is inconsequential. We administer the test to all patients with the goal of better understanding their mental state and condition. There is no judgment here."

"Mmmhmm." The Joker replied, sounding bored and unconvinced.

Dr. Bartholomew reached down then, bringing up a suitcase from the floor and laying it on the desk. Flipping it open, he pulled from it a folder, and after replacing the case, opened it to pull out several sheets of paper.

"This is the test." He said, turning it around and sliding it across the desk, towards his patient. He reached for his coat's breast pocket, pulling out a fine tipped marker, which he also slid towards the Joker. "It's multiple choice. Just fill in what you think the correct answer is for each question. When you're finished, let me know."

The Joker merely stared at Bartholomew, not even bothering to acknowledge the test.

"You can begin whenever you like." The psychiatrist said.

Still the Joker did nothing, continuing to look straight ahead at the doctor.

And then he shrugged, reaching forward, the chain on his cuffs clinking against the desk as he took up the marker and leaned closer.

For some minutes, the Joker just stared at the first page, making no move towards it.

Dr. Bartholomew watched him, trying to gauge whether he was actually reading the questions or just gazing blankly upon the paper.

And suddenly the Joker lifted the marker, beginning to fill in the answers.

He did this quickly, not stopping, it seemed, to think about what was being asked, just moving rapidly and without pause from one question to the next, until, only a few seconds later, he turned the page, where he again sat, staring at the paper.

Bartholomew realized then, when he had again filled out the answers in quick succession, as he had on the first page, that the Joker was reading the questions all at once and then filling in the answers, rather then taking on one question at a time.

The psychiatrist found this fascinating, continuing to watch as he patient repeated the pattern over and over.

But the test was long. Twenty pages, each page containing at least ten, _difficult_ questions. And after a time, Bartholomew looked away, busying himself with his notes and files for his other patients.

He was surprised, to say the least, when maybe 15 minutes later the test was slid forward, into his line of sight, a moment after the marker being tossed atop it.

He looked up to find the Joker staring back at him.

"Finished?" The Doctor questioned skeptically.

The Joker raised his hands up, seeming to say 'I guess so.'

Bartholomew eyed him for a long moment before glancing down at the test, and then back up to his patient.

He wondered if the Joker had even _tried_.

No one had ever finished the test in less then forty minutes, and here the Joker had done it in about half that time.

That, coupled with the Joker's dismissive and reluctant attitude towards taking the exam, and the way he'd apparently rushed through it, led the Doctor to believe that, no, he probably _hadn't _tried.

"And you're satisfied with the answers you've chosen?" He pressed.

The Joker nodded, looking completely bored.

Bartholomew sighed.

"Very well." He said. "I'll have it graded. We should have the results by Monday. In the meantime, you can return to your cell."

"But doc!" The Joker exclaimed. "We haven't finished up the hour! According to that, uh, clock up on your wall, we've got at _least _another 20 minutesss!"

Again Bartholomew sighed.

"I'm aware of that Joker. However, since you finished the test more quickly then expected, and since I don't at the moment have the test's answer sheet on hand, I'm afraid we'll have to cut the session today short."

"But what about questions Doc.? Don't you wanna ask me about my troubled childhood?"

"Next time Joker." The psychiatrist said, clearly exasperated. "Frankly, I expected you to take most of the hour with the test, and so I'm not fully prepared today with my notes."

"Ohhh… That's too bad Doc." The Joker said. "Cause I had some interesting things to share. I might not be so inclined, come Monday morniiiing."

Dr. Bartholomew regarded him for a moment, wondering at the sincerity of the Joker's statement.

The truth was, he _wasn't _fully prepared, but if the Joker was being honest, it wouldn't do to pass on an opportunity to learn something of his past.

"Alright." The Doctor finally breathed. "What is it you want to tell me?"

For a long, few seconds, the Joker said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the older man.

And then he bent forward, leaning his elbows on to the desk.

"Ya know Doc., I'll bet you love this job, don't ya?"

Bartholomew blinked.

"Excuse me?" He said.

"Analyzing the loonies and all. They _say_… there's a thin line between genius and madness. And I'll just _bet_, what really rings your bell is… _deconstructing_ all these minds deemed too _jumbled_ for the rest of the world. It must be a hell of an ego booster, leading everyone to believe you've solved a puzzle no one else can, uh? Lemme guess. That's what these, uh, these _tests _are for? Bragging rights, hmm? The smarter the crazy, the more impressive when you crack the nut. Am I right?"

The psychiatrist didn't say anything for a moment, just gazing back at his patient before, finally, he cleared his throat, straightening the papers in his hands.

"That will be all for today Joker." He said, reaching out to press the call button on his desk.

Seconds later and the orderlies from earlier appeared.

"Take him back to his cell please." Bartholomew ordered, and they complied, moving for the Joker and taking him by the arms, lifting him to his feet.

"I hope you're not disappointed Doc." The madman called as he was pulled away. "The results mean more to you then they do me, I'm sure."

Dr. Bartholomew watched then as his patient was taken out the door.

And he said nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9:**

200.

That was what the Joker had scored.

Jesus, the man was a genius, unequivocally.

Bartholomew had never, in his 20 year career, seen anyone score so highly. He himself had scored 134 on the same test. And certainly none of his patients, nor the patients of the other doctors here, had ever earned so dramatic a score.

He wasn't entirely sure, but off the top of his head, if he remembered correctly, that was 5 standard deviations from the average IQ of a human being. That would mean only about 1 out of every 3, 500,000 people had that kind of intelligence.

To say it was unnerving would be a gross understatement.

Because in spite of that intelligence, that incredible, _vast_ intelligence, the Joker's mind was also an unstable one. And Dr. Bartholomew was aware of the fact that, though he'd yet to be properly diagnosed, his patient indeed suffered from a number of mental disorders, made obvious already from the things the psychiatrist had observed of him, both outside and in this institution.

What worried the doctor was the thought of such an incredible and rare intellect coexisting with the burden of mental illness and clear emotional trauma, even if he didn't yet know what that trauma was.

The combination was troubling. Dr. Bartholomew couldn't be certain how someone as brilliant as the Joker very clearly was would process and deal with whatever mental and emotional disorders he carried with him.

Beyond the obvious answer of him processing it through violence, through lashing out and attacking others, the psychiatrist wasn't foolish enough to think that was the _only _way in which the Joker dealt with it all.

It was just the most apparent, the most prominent and noticeable.

It was his job, he supposed, to get past that and find out in what _other_ ways the Joker was affected. To find out how the combination of that intelligence _with_ the mental illness influenced his behavior, and how, in the end, he might help the Joker handle it in less harmful, less destructive ways.

When he'd volunteered to take on the Joker's case though, the doctor hadn't anticipated he'd be dealing with a genius. A real and true _genius_.

He realized, when he'd seen the Joker's score, that avoiding the patient's mind games, sidestepping his traps and getting past any walls he would doubtless have up, was going to be much more difficult, and much more dangerous, then he'd originally thought.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't at all intimidated.

He was.

Still, despite the fact that he possessed the mind of a genius, the Joker _was_ mentally ill. He suffered from very real, very tangible mental disorders. Disorders which had been heavily studied and researched over a great many years by some of the best minds in the field of psychology.

It didn't matter how smart the Joker was.

He was also mentally handicapped. He was dealing with chemical imbalances; possibly hallucinations, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder. Any number of debilitating diseases which, no matter how much more intelligent he was then everyone else, would render him at a very significant disadvantage to anyone not suffering the same things.

It would leave him vulnerable.

And that was exactly what Dr. Bartholomew was trained to take advantage of.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.

/

Someone had grown lax in scheduling the times when inmates were moved, and barely two weeks in to the Joker's stay there. On one of his trips to the showers, he and his orderlies crossed paths with Jonathan Crane and his.

The men in white had almost completely fallen apart then, and the Joker had laughed uproariously, as the Scarecrow, as he was called on the streets, looked on them with apparent contempt.

There'd been a lot of shouting, a lot of finger pointing and assigning blame, the buffoons making it more obvious then it already was that high risk patients were meant to be kept separate at all times.

And while all of this went on, and the Joker had finally gotten control over his own mirth, he looked at Crane and smiled, and Crane looked back, not returning the friendly gesture.

"What's up?" The Joker said.

For a moment, the Scarecrow said nothing, and then he arched an eyebrow in curiosity.

"So you're him, hmm? The _Joker_. I'd heard about your being here."

"In the flesh." The Joker replied.

Jonathan said nothing to that, only continuing to stare at Arkham's newest resident.

"Maybe when I break out we can do a _team-up_." The Joker said, grinning.

Jonathan's eyes fixed on the taller man's scars as they stretched oddly over his face.

"Does that hurt?" He asked.

"What?"

"The scars." The Scarecrow elaborated.

The Joker smirked.

"No…" He answered. "Not anymore."

/

"You scored well on your IQ test." Bartholomew began, absentmindedly shuffling papers on his desk.

The Joker didn't reply, staring ahead at him.

"Quite well, in fact." The doctor went on.

Still, the Joker said nothing.

"Would you like to know what it was?"

The Joker tilted his head slightly, keeping his eyes on the psychiatrist, and a moment later, gave one shake.

"Oh, don't feel embarrassed." Bartholomew pushed. "It's natural to be reluctant. Many of our patient's feel it's a judgment on them. But I assure you, its not. And in any event, I think you'll be quite pleased with the results."

The Joker suddenly smiled.

"Embarrassed?" He said. "That's funny."

Bartholomew tilted his own head now.

"What's funny?" He asked.

"You think I'm embarrassed." The Joker explained. "That's funny."

The psychiatrist leaned back slightly.

"It's a common response." He said.

"And you think I'm common?"

Bartholomew blinked.

"Well I never said…"

"I met the Scarecrow." The Joker cut him short.

"Excuse me?"

"He's an interesting guy. Kind of like meee."

The doctor looked taken aback.

"I'm sorry." He finally managed. "You met… Jonathan Crane? When did this happen?"

"Today." The Joker answered quickly.

"I see. And _where_ did this happen?"

"Outside the showers Doc. Nice kid. He asked me about my scars."

He could see immediate interest flash in Bartholomew's eyes. He kept his own expression stoic.

"Your scars?" The doctor questioned.

"Didn't he used to _work_ here?" The Joker again changed subjects. "He was your head psychiatrist, wasn't he?"

Bartholomew looked somewhat agitated now, though he tried to hide the fact.

"I'm afraid we're not permitted to speak of other patients Joker. This session is about you."

"Kind of interesting." The Joker ignored him. "How quickly everything can changgge. One minute you're _directing_ an insane asylum, the next you're a patient there."

Bartholomew said nothing.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it Doc.? How far you are from the same thing?"

The psychiatrist stared hard at the Joker for a moment. And then he cleared his throat.

"Jonathan Crane is a sick man Joker. He was in need of psychiatric help, not unlike yourself."

"I'm sure he thinks the same of you Doc. You ask me, he just saw the light."

Bartholomew breathed out heavily through his nose then, letting his annoyance show visibly.

"If you don't mind Joker, I'd like to keep our sessions focused on their appropriate subject, which would be you."

"Sure Doc." The Joker answered. "What do you wanna know?"

/

Jonathan Crane could hear a voice droning on in the background.

It belonged to a Dr. Richard Conners, the psychiatrist they'd assigned him upon his being committed.

Jonathan hadn't ever known Dr. Conners, him having been brought on after he'd lost his position as Arkham's director.

The members of the board had been smart enough to know assigning him a former co-worker would constitute as a "conflict on interest".

Jonathan had been surprised by they're realizing so, considering the buffoonery they'd displayed whenever in the past he'd had the displeasure of having to deal with them.

As it was, he wasn't actually listening to a word Conners was spewing. Why would he? He was the best doctor this institute had ever seen! And they had the _nerve_, the unmitigated _gall _to claim he was in need of psychiatrist help? The very notion was preposterous.

This _idiot_ wasn't going to privy him to anything about himself he wasn't already _acutely_ aware of.

No, right now, his mind was focused solely on the Joker, the young man he'd come across outside the showers.

He'd heard the news when the Joker had been declared incompetent to stand trial. So had everyone at Arkham.

It had caused quite the stir, in fact.

Arkham, though it had its fair share of patients prone towards violent behaviors, had never seen nor housed the likes of someone such as the Joker before.

People were nervous. Inmates and staff alike. Concern was prevalent as to how they were going to approach the situation and the days leading up to his arrival were tension filled.

Jonathan, though, had been more curious then anything.

His greatest concern was in whether or not he'd ever have the opportunity to actually _meet _the infamous terrorist.

He knew of course beforehand that they never would allow the Joker interaction with general populace, and he himself, though regarded to be the only other high risk patient, wasn't deemed violent, and so was kept in a ward totally separate. He understood they classified him "high risk" because of his former position at Arkham and his intimate understanding of the buildings layout and security protocol.

The Joker though, he was classified "high risk" because he was exceptionally violent, and from what Crane had seen of him in the news, exceptionally smart.

The orderlies indeed had blundered badly in allowing the two of them to cross paths.

The cretins had been so distraught and so distracted by their mistake, that they'd failed to even notice the conversation which past between them.

Morons.

Jonathan thought of what the Joker had said, about him saying, when he broke out of the place, that maybe they could team up together.

That had been silly.

Team up? What was this, some make believe fairy tale where super-villains joined forces to help defeat the hero and conquer the planet?

It sounded like the delusions of some over-imaginative child.

The Joker had delivered it with an air of amusement, but what struck Jonathan had been the _confidence_ in his voice.

He sounded quite sure of himself that, indeed, he _would_ escape from Arkham.

The Joker was anything but stupid, of course, but Jonathan knew from experience how air tight the asylum was, with its state of the art security system and the militaristic order with which the guard staff ran itself.

The only reason all those inmates from before had escaped was because he'd had access to all the security codes, and his status as director had allowed him to bypass all security measures.

Getting out from the inside, that was a task nigh impossible.

He supposed the Joker was going to find that out the hard way, the same as he.

The orderlies here and guards alike were brutish, deriving great pleasure from physically assaulting the patients.

He was sure they'd already done so to the Joker.

He himself was a prime candidate.

Most of the staff from when he was director remained in place, and he hadn't exactly been what one would call popular among the work place. They thought him stuck up and suffering a superiority complex.

It wasn't a complex at all. He _was_ superior to them. They simply were too _stupid_ to realize it.

As it was, he'd found himself an immediate target, and it wasn't unusual, in the few months he'd been a patient here, for them to rough him up.

It wasn't as bad for him though as it was for some.

Because of who he'd been, a highly respected doctor among a staff of already highly respected doctors, there were people looking out for him, checking up routinely on his status.

If the orderlies beat him too badly, it would be found out, as he'd end up in the infirmary, and the nurses would know to report it, lest they lose their jobs.

The Joker though, Jonathan felt quite sure, would experience the pigs full wrath.

No one was looking out for him.

Or for anyone else.

The exception was himself.

But everyone knew, in Arkham, abuse of patients was a regular occurrence, and something everyone, for their own benefit, simply turned a blind eye towards.

Someone like the Joker, they could beat him to within an inch of his life and it still might go unreported.

Crane wondered how he might handle it.

The young man certainly looked as though he'd dealt with his fair share of abuse in life, if those scars were any indication. Though those might have been self-inflicted. It was impossible to say.

But Jonathan was good at gauging a person's toughness, just by looking at them. It was something he'd developed over the years. And the Joker was_ tough_, there was no doubt about that. He was hard.

But even the most resilient man had his breaking point.

Jonathan thought it a shame, really. He'd have so enjoyed analyzing the Joker's brain, getting a chance to talk with him, find out what makes him tick.

He'd never get that opportunity if the orderlies here had any say in the matter. More so if he'd heard right about Bartholomew being assigned his doctor. That man was as sadistic as any Jonathan had ever known. He took immense pleasure in the twisting and unraveling of a patients mind. And those were the kinds of scars which never healed, weren't they?

They'd make sure the Joker wasn't the same man he'd been when he came here.

He was sure of it.

"Jonathan! _Jonathan_!"

He was snapped from his thoughts.

"Are you even listening to a word I'm saying to you!" Dr. Conners was eyeing him angrily.

Jonathan stuck out his lower lip, his eyes rolling upwards.

"Hmmm. Let me think about that." He said. And after a moment he shook his head. "No. No Richard. I can't say I am."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10:**

It took only twice more before the orderlies had grown tired with beating an unconscious Joker, frustrated at the lack of reaction.

He'd known, of course, it wouldn't take long.

That was the entire point, after all. They wanted to hear him scream.

It was hilarious to him, really, that something so simple as breaking one of their wrists had scared them enough to give that desire up for a time.

It was pathetic.

How people allowed their fear to control them, and how _easily_ that fear was brought to bear.

He'd known they wouldn't sedate him when he saw their faces, their expressions a mix of fear and anticipation.

"Ready for some real action, huh boys?" He said as they pulled him from his cot, quickly cuffing his hands behind his back.

"Just get goin'." Teddy Bear pushed his shoulder.

The Joker had by then worked out the routine. They only did this at night, after all the doctors had gone home and only a handful of nurses were on duty.

It was okay to abuse the patients as long as no one was forced to face the reality of it happening. Everyone knew, of course, but so long as they weren't witness to it, as long as no one directly acknowledged it, as long as no one had to take _responsibility_ for it, then it was fine.

Hypocrites.

They shoved him roughly in to the showers, hard enough for him to lose his footing, and he fell hard to his knees.

He knew the fear in them was still strong when one of them laid their boot deep in to his lower back.

They weren't removing his restraints. And why would they? Like this, they had full control of the situation.

But then, the Joker thought, their foolery lay in their assuming they _ever_ had full control.

One never should make that mistake, but oh so many did.

He fell forward, his face hitting the tiled floor. A moment later, he felt one of them bury their hand in his hair, pulling him up.

"I'm gonna enjoy hearing you _scream_." He heard Stevens say close to his ear.

He smiled.

"Well, _Steve-O_, you'll have to do better then thaaat…" He chuckled lightly.

That was their cue, apparently, as all four men came in on him.

Stevens dropped him, and not a second later, another of them had taken his hair in their fist and he was being dragged across the tile, than thrown up hard against the wall.

He collided off of it, crumpling to a heap on the floor.

And then they began to kick him.

He'd started to laugh by then.

So they kicked him harder.

And he laughed harder with it.

They didn't understand why.

Of course they didn't. People of their intellect would have a hard time comprehending anything more complex then a game of hopscotch.

They were so ardent in their attempts, so bent on eliciting the desired response, and yet they couldn't see, the harder they tried, the more hilarious the Joker found it.

They were making the same mistake Batman had, though the Joker never would compare these buffoons to Batman. Still, the mistake was the same.

They assumed he _cared_.

That he cared about himself. About what _happened _to him.

He didn't understand why so many continued to think that.

He thought the reckless abandon with which he led his life would have clued them in, that they very activities he engaged in would privy them to the fact he wasn't exactly _concerned_ with his well being, with the state of his condition.

Even just the way he _looked _should have been a good enough indicator.

Apparently not though, as everyone seemed to continue on in the delusion of thinking they could beat him in to submission, in to getting what they wanted from him.

And it made him laugh.

The obvious desperation when they would begin to hit him harder, the confusion when it didn't work, when it didn't do what they thought it would, what they thought it _should_, and the only solution they could think then was to hit him harder still.

And they didn't know why he laughed?

He could only laugh more for it.

They could kill him, he wouldn't care. He wouldn't care if they beat his brains to mush.

It would be him who won in the end. To expose their natures, to themselves, and to everyone else, to expose the falsity of their ideals, the pretense of their proclamations, dying for that was easy. It was _fun_.

Better that then to cling pitifully to something which never belonged to him in the first place, which he never had any _right_ too. Life was something thrust upon us, not something created with our own hands, not something we had any choice in, any control over.

People acted indignant when you hurt them, as if you'd violated something sacred and off limits, something untouchable.

That also made him laugh.

As if their lives were so important, so special. As if them living was something ordained by God and thus divinely secured. The Joker couldn't believe the stupidity of it, when _God_, whatever it was, was the greatest killer of them all, when it took routinely and without hesitation the very thing people liked to think of as _theirs_, as their right to _have_.

No, he was ready to go. He was ready to go for drawing back the curtain on what they all were, underneath it all. He was ready to go for anything… and for nothing at all. To go just _because_.

And he would win, because he understood. He understood the great _joke_ of it all.

And they didn't.

He came back to what was happening when he felt one of their boots connect with the side of his head, against his ear, and a loud buzzing exploded in his brain, the room spinning in dizzying circles.

"Wooow, when'd we get on the carousel boysss?" He laughed.

"Get up!" Russell's barked.

"Well see Russ, I'm tryyying to." The Joker continued chuckling as he struggled to his knees.

Steven's kicked out, sinking his foot deep in to the inmate's stomach.

The Joker chocked out, collapsing down.

He could feel the taste of bile rising up in his throat.

A moment later and he threw up.

The orderlies laughed loudly together.

For a long, few seconds, the Joker only stared at the thick liquid, filled with remnants of what little food he'd actually eaten during the day.

And then he too laughed.

"S-see that now…" He began. "And the nurses wonder why I'm s-so skinny."

The men's laughter quickly cut short and they stared at the Joker.

Steven's raged.

"You stupid, fucking piece of _shit_!" He screamed, once more kicking the Joker, now in the ribs. And he did it again, this time accompanied by an audible crack.

The Joker fell over on to his side, and then his back, his eyes closed, a groan escaping his lips which slid fast in to low laughter.

Steven's moved to kick him again when Theo pulled him back.

"Hold on man." He said. "I think you broke his ribs."

"So!" Steven's shot.

"So they're gonna find out about it now!" Theo went on. "They'll take him to the infirmary and… _see_…"

"Big deal." Russell's cut in. "They don't ever do nothin'."

"Not if we stop _now_." Theo argued. "We break enough of his bones, and they'll be forced to look in to it."

The others looked for a moment unconvinced, anger lining their faces. But then they seemed to relax.

"Yeah… I guess you're right." Steven's said.

"Aw, but boys…" The conversation was disrupted by the Joker speaking. And as he did, pain shot up through his side. "We were just starting to have _fun_ I thought…"

"Shut UP!" Stevens lost it, again kicking at the inmate's ribs before bending down and lying in to his face with one punch, then another, and another, until Brandon, the new guy, pulled him off.

"W-wooo HA HA HA!" The Joker practically rolled with laughter, and the others had to hold their co-worker back.

"Yo man, _enough_!" Russell's yelled. "You're gonna get us _all_ in trouble. He's had enough for today!"

They all fell silent then.

And the Joker continued on laughing, licking at his lips, the metallic taste of his own blood on his tongue.

The orderlies stood staring at him, a sudden feeling of dread having consumed them.

"…He don't look like he's had enough." Brandon muttered after a while.

But no one said anything to that.

/

The Joker's condition had been discovered by one of the nurses charged with administering medication.

She'd seen him through the window of his cell door, lying turned towards her on his cot, sleeping. His face had some bruising on it, and he bore a split lip, though nothing serious.

But the nurse had been an experienced one, and she could see from the way he was breathing that something was wrong.

So now here he was, sat in Arkham's infirmary, Marion standing in front of him, a look of concern lining her face, three orderlies, different from the one's who'd done this to him, standing by.

"Can you lift up your arms for me?" She asked. "I need to take your shirt off."

He didn't say anything, simply doing as she requested.

Pain ripped through him as he did, and his brows knotted just barely together with it, his eyes trained unblinking on her.

Tentatively, Marion reached forward, taking the hem of his shirt gently in her fingers.

Carefully she began to lift it, and she couldn't help it as her eyes went wide, her hands pausing, catching a gasp in her throat as she took in the state of his body.

Almost the entirety of his torso was colored a deep purple, some areas having faded to green, then yellow, others still with bruising atop bruising, looking reddish-black.

The nurse swallowed slowly, trying to conceal her shock, continuing then in the task of removing his top, trying to be gentle as she pulled it up over his head and then arms.

Softly she placed it aside, breathing in deep.

"Are…" She began, swallowing again. "Are you in pain?"

She wanted to kick herself then.

Of _course_ he was in pain. What kind of ridiculous question was that?

The Joker shrugged.

"The nurse who… had you brought in… she suspects you've broken a rib maybe." Marion said.

The Joker smirked.

"Does she?" He asked sarcastically.

"I'm going to feel along your rib cage and see, okay?"

The Joker tilted his head slightly, staring at her.

"Sure." He said.

Marion hesitated, still feeling repulsion towards him. But that was selfish, she thought to herself, and at the moment, it was her _job_ to help him, no matter her personal feelings.

So she reached out, pushing who the patient was from her mind and simply allowing professionalism to take over.

The Joker flinched when her fingers pressed along his sides.

"I'm sorry!" She said quickly. "Does that hurt?"

"It's just your hands." He answered, licking his lips. "They're cold."

"Oh." Marion said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize _sweet_heart." He said, half smiling.

She swallowed, nodding slowly.

And then she resumed her exam, moving her hands up slowly along his ribs.

If she was hurting the Joker, he didn't show any signs of it. He instead was watching her hands intently.

Sure enough, he had what felt like a cracked rib on his left side.

Marion's brow furrowed.

She found herself actually wanting to ask the Joker who had done all this to him, but convinced herself against it. It really wasn't her concern, and anyway, if she was being honest with herself, she already knew. And there wasn't anything she could do about it, or even would, if she was being honest still.


	11. Chapter 11

**Tell me what you think guys! **

**Chapter 11:**

Dr. Bartholomew sat, eyeing his patient from across the desk, his hands rested on a stack of folders.

He inhaled deeply before reaching to his face, removing his reading glasses, beginning absentmindedly to handle them.

"You broke a rib, on your left hand side." He stated as a matter of fact.

The Joker smiled.

There it was, again. The good doctor, _deluding _himself to the conduct of the institute's staff.

It was easier for them that way.

"You mind telling me just how you accomplished it?"

The Joker's grin widened, his tongue coming out to swipe across his lips.

"I fell off my cot Doc. Hit the floor _hard_. Restless sleeper. Ya know?"

The psychiatrist kept his eyes trained on him.

"You broke a rib falling out of bed?" He questioned skeptically. "I somehow find that unlikely."

The madman shrugged.

"Take it or leave it Doc. But that's my storyyy." Again he licked his lips.

"I see." Bartholomew looked down for a moment, before again bringing his eyes to his patient. "You know, there's a name for that."

The Joker looked at him quizzically, his head tilting to the side.

"?" He asked, his voice clipped.

"Your lips. You lick them incessantly." The Doctor said. "That's an actual, clinical condition. It has a name. Would you like to know it?"

The Joker's head turned more to its side, and slowly he shook it.

"Nope Doc. Can't say I would."

Bartholomew smiled tightly.

"Very well." He answered, opening up a desk drawer and reaching in. A moment later, and he'd placed a tube of chapstick on to the table.

"Here." He said. "That should help with the cracking and bleeding, in any event."

The madman's eyes fell on the stick and for several seconds, he just stared at it, not saying a word. And then he shifted his gaze back to the doctor.

He didn't move.

"It's yours." Bartholomew said. "Take it."

Still the Joker only looked back at him, his expression stoic.

The psychiatrist smiled.

"You can trust me Joker. I haven't had it poisoned or some such nonsense, whatever it is you're thinking."

The Joker snorted in laughter.

"That's funny?" Bartholomew asked. "You're clearly paranoid."

"Am I?" The madman asked, his scars stretching obscenely as he grinned.

"I would say so, yes." The doctor replied. "You've shown reluctance towards everything I've offered, as though afraid in some way."

The Joker's expression suddenly shifted, his eyes narrowing.

"… Afraiiid?" He echoed.

"Well, perhaps _suspicious_ is the more appropriate term."

"_Fear _Doc?" The Joker went on, ignoring the psychiatrist. "You know _nothing_ of _fear_."

Dr. Bartholomew looked taken aback.

"… Excuse me?"

"Have you ever… _wondered_…" The madman continued, his eyes rolling up. And then abruptly, he brought them back to Bartholomew. "What it is to have… no _hope_? To stare forward, and to see _nothing_ but the _darkness _of _nothing_?" He spit suddenly, anger now filling his voice. "It's a blackness so _deep_, you can't even _imagine_ it. Something which folds in on you, keeps you buried and _trapped_ with the knowing despair of it being forever unending." He leaned forward suddenly, his elbows coming to rest on the table. "You're falling for always Doc, and no eyes see you. There's nothing there. There's no _one_. You won't be rescued. You won't be _saved_. And you _know_ this. You know this in the deepest part of everything you are. The horror of meaninglessness and its wretched, _wicked_ inescapability."

The Joker leaned back then, his mouth turned downwards, in to a pronounced frown.

"The emptiness of existence, _Doc_. _That's_ fear. And you know _nothing _of fear."

For a long few moments, Dr. Bartholomew could only star at the madman, unmoving, his hands gripping tight to his reading glasses.

And then he seemed suddenly to break from some trance, his head shaking as he pulled his eyes away, casting them down.

"Yes, well…" He began, inhaling a sharp breath, clearing his throat loudly. "Very good."

He reached up to place his glasses back on his face.

The Joker watched him with unfailing eyes.

"And is that how you… _feel_ about things? About yourself?"

Finally he looked up to his patient, the madman's expression blank.

And then suddenly, the Joker laughed, pitched high and unrestrained.

/

Jonathan sat in front of the television. His eyes were on the screen, but he wasn't at all watching it.

He wouldn't do much of anything when in the rec. room, really. Just sit there, his eyes drifting over Gotham's forgotten mad.

He hated to think of them in that regard. Because really, what did that make him? But that's what they were, wasn't it? The people no one else wanted to acknowledge the existence of. It was how he'd gotten away with his experimentations so long, and how it was the abuse of patients continued to run rampant throughout the staff.

He himself had only been caught when he'd attacked the "good" citizens of the city.

Arkham was the keeper of lost souls.

His thoughts were disrupted when a body came in to his line of sight, blocking his view of the screen.

"Hi Dr. Crane."

He looked up, seeing a young man, staring down at him.

His name was Fredrick Thomson. He'd been a patient at Arkham since long before Jonathan had lost his position.

He suffered from severe bipolar disorder.

It was doubtful he ever would be declared competent enough to be released back on to the street.

"Hello Fredrick." He replied.

The younger man nodded and then sat beside him on the couch.

Jonathan repressed the urge to roll his eyes.

Fredrick pestered him constantly, and he didn't know why. He was never particularly friendly to the boy, but neither was he extremely rude or dismissive. And maybe that was it. It was hard to make what one could call friends in this place, or even cordial acquaintances. And besides, he called him Doctor still, something no one else in this place did. He was respectful. And so Jonathan put up with him.

"I was in the infirmary yesterday." Fredrick said suddenly.

"Mmm." Jonathan muttered, uninterested.

"I was scratching too hard again and they found out. Dr. Henderson says I shouldn't do that."

"Really?" The Scarecrow said, sounding utterly unimpressed.

"Yeah…" Fredrick answered, his voice trailing off.

Abruptly he sat more upright, his eyes going wide in excitement.

"You'll never guess who I saw in there!" He exclaimed.

Jonathan sighed.

"I'm sure I won't Fredrick, so why don't you just _tell_ me?"

"The guy with the scars!" Fredrick whispered a little too loudly. "You know, the one who was running around the city a few months back, killing people and blowing stuff up? The one who was wearing all that crazy clown makeup?"

Jonathan's eyes went momentarily wide and he turned to look at the younger man.

"You saw the Joker?" He asked, his full attention now on the man.

"Yeah! That's it! The Joker. He was in there yesterday. He's scary Dr. Crane. Real mean looking. As mean as on those videos."

"Yes, I know." The Scarecrow said. "I've met him."

"Really?" The younger man sounded astonished. "What's he like?"

"Very smart… if not a bit delusional." Jonathan answered. "I only spoke with him briefly. Most of what I've assessed has been from the same tapes you've seen."

"Oh…" Fredrick replied.

"What was he doing in there?" The Scarecrow questioned.

The younger man shrugged.

"I was across the room from him, so I couldn't really hear anything… One of the nurses was checking him out. He was beat _all_ to hell though."

Jonathan turned more fully towards him now, even more interested.

"Really?"

Fredrick nodded.

"I guess that must be why he was in there. The nurse had his shirt off. There wasn't a patch of his skin that wasn't black and blue, and I mean, _deep_ purple and black. The orderlies've been having a good time with him, I guess..."

Jonathan nodded.

"Undoubtedly."

"What did he seem like to you?" He went on. "How was he acting?"

Again Fredrick shrugged.

"He didn't seem too bothered, to be honest. It was weird. Looking at him, you just _know_ he was in a lot of pain, but he wasn't acting like it. I've seen other patients beat up maybe only half as bad and they can barely move. And when they do, they cry about it. He wasn't making a sound though. Like I said, scary guy."

Jonathan again nodded.

"Yes…" He said thoughtfully. "Scary indeed."

/

"Did you graduate high school?"

The Joker looked at him blankly, giving no indication he would answer.

"It's a simple question." Bartholomew went on.

Still he got no answer.

"If the answer is no, there's no need to be embarrassed. It's no reflection on your intellig…"

The Joker suddenly shot forward in his seat, leaning far over the desk so that he was mere inches from the psychiatrists face.

Bartholomew hadn't been able to help it as his eyes went wide in shock and he fell backwards, away from the madman.

The Joker stared unflinching in to his eyes for a moment, his own burning brightly, his mouth set in to a line.

And then he at once smiled, a snicker coming from his throat as he slowly back away, until he was again seated.

His tongue ran slowly over his lips.

"Ask me something worth answering Doc." He said.

Bartholomew swallowed thickly, and realized a thin film of sweat had formed along his forehead and palms, his hands trembling vaguely.

"Why did you do that?" He managed, trying hard to control to tremor in his voice.

"Your face pisses me off." The Joker said. "Ask me something else."

The psychiatrist looked down, trying to compose himself.

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do that again." He said.

"That's not a question Doc."

"If you do that again, I'll be forced to cut this session sh…"

"ASK ME A QUESTION!" The Joker suddenly roared, his voice turning all at once to loud gravel and fury.

Bartholomew visibly jumped, completely taken aback, his eyes again going wide.

The Joker's face was contorted in rage.

But as quickly as it had come, it melted away, replaced with a wide grin.

"Come on Doc. Whatdoya wanna know?"

The doctor felt completely unsettled now, and was sure if he spoke, his voice would shake terribly.

It seemed all at once, he'd seen the violence of this man. And it was disturbing.

This session was going badly.

It was important he gain back control.

"W…" He began, than stopped, steadying his voice. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Anything you want Doc." The madman answered, sounding suddenly chipper.

"You've shot down every question I've thus far asked you." Bartholomew said.

"Ahh, but _Doooc_… it's for your _own_ benefit. I want you to be _productive_. Flex those… _creative_ muscles of yoursss. These kinds of questions just aren'.to.."

The psychiatrist reached up, removing his glasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

He was growing very uncomfortable. But by ending the session now, he would let the Joker know he'd gotten to him, and that wasn't conducive to how a doctor/patient relationship _should_ be.

He was going to stick this out. And he reminded himself inwardly that, though intimidating, the Joker _was_ indeed ill, and if he only focused correctly, he could gain the upper hand.

He ran a hand through his hair, replacing his glasses.

"Have you ever had a meaningful relationship Joker?" He asked.

The Joker's head tilted to its side, staring at him.

"Define… _meaningful_." He answered.

"Has there ever been anyone in your life you cared about? And vice versa? Has there ever been anyone who cared about you?"

"Are you saying you don't _care_ about me Doc.?" The Joker's face took on an expression of exaggerated hurt.

"I care about you." Bartholomew answered. "I wouldn't be treating you if I didn't. I'm talking about outside myself. Can you think of anyone?"

The Joker grinned.

"Sure. I had a girl once. Sweet little thing, she waaas." He frowned suddenly. "But she left me. 'It's not you.' She said. 'It's me.' But see Doc., that was a _lie_. She was _embarrassed _by me. Ashamed to be _seen_ with me. It was the scars. Ya see? She just couldn't _take_ it anymore. The strange, _disapproving_ looks. The _disgust _on people's faces when we were togetherrr."

Bartholomew looked at him skeptically.

"Yes, I've heard about you and the scar stories." He said. "Why don't you try telling me the truth?"

"Well Doc." The Joker shrugged. "That was a good story."

"Yes. But a little _honesty_ from you would be appreciated."

"That story was very, uh, _honest _Doc."

"How so?" The psychiatrist questioned. "You were lying."

"The _truth_ is in the example of human _nature_."

Bartholomew nodded.

"I see. Alright. But what about _you_? Is there truth in that related to you?"

The madman shrugged.

"Actually, that's a good question." The doctor went on. "I doubt you would have concocted the tale if it didn't have some basis in fact. Obviously, you suffer from a permanent, physical disfigurement. I imagine, dependent on when you received those scars, they must have had an impact on the way people treated you. And I'm sure that impact must have extended to any sort of… _romantic _relationships you might have had. I imagine it must have made it quite difficult for you. With that in mind, let me ask, have you ever _experienced_ an intimate relationship?"

Bartholomew saw what he thought was anger flash in the Joker's eyes.

He didn't answer.

"Or intimacy of _any_ kind?" The psychiatrist pushed. "Have you ever had a sexual relationship, for example?"

Still the Joker remained silent, his gaze fixed unblinking on the doctor.

"You don't have to answer if you're uncomfortable." Bartholomew said.

"I'm not uncomfortable." The madman answered finally.

"Well then?" The doctor went on.

"Sure Doc. I'm a real lady killerrr."

"But you must experience feelings of displacement, yes? People have, I imagine, treated you as something of an oddity."

Again anger flashed in the Joker's eyes and Bartholomew had to repress the urge to smile. He'd found something to work with.

"Ya know Doc…" The Joker started abruptly. "You _remind_ me of a guy I once knew. Real smart guy. At least, _he_ thought so. Always thought he was two steps ahead of everyone _else_. And he was, usssually. But see, he, uh, over_estimated_ his own intelligence. And _one day_, he tried his game with the _wrong _guy. And you know what _happened_ Doc.?"

The psychiatrist just stared back.

"This guy, he ended up with his _guts_ torn out. _All _the way out." He leaned forward slightly. "Painful way to go Doc." His voice dropped suddenly lower. "But that's what you get, when you mmmess around with the _wrong_ kind of peopllle."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12:**

Dr. Bartholomew reset the footage and began watching it over for the fourth time, leaning in close to the screen, his eyes focused intensely.

It was film of a prison riot which had broken out at County some months back. They'd forwarded it to Arkham upon the Joker's initial transfer, claiming he'd been the instigator.

It was only now that the psychiatrist was taking the time to view it.

The Joker was a violent man, Dr. Bartholomew knew that.

But having suddenly become the focus of that violence, even if only in the form of a verbal threat, had been somewhat of a wake up call for the doctor.

The Joker had _meant_ it.

Bartholomew had been able to see it in his _eyes_, and hear it in his _voice_.

It wasn't as though the psychiatrist hadn't dealt with his fair share of threats from some of his various patients over the years.

But those had been empty. Emotionally charged, said in the heat of the moment.

What the Joker had said, that had been calculated, purposeful. He wasn't bluffing, he wasn't posing.

Bartholomew had felt the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end at the madman's words, and his fingertips go numb.

He'd felt in imminent danger.

That hadn't ever happened to him before when dealing with a patient.

To be that _close _to the violence of the man, to see how _real_ it was… Just thinking about it made the doctor slightly queasy.

It put in to perspective just what it was he was now watching on screen, his eyes trained on the Joker as he tore through one hardened convict after another, putting them down and killing them with what appeared ridiculous ease, seemingly completely unaffected by their own attacks on him, never slowing down, never hesitating, throwing himself in to one confrontation after another with total, unmitigated abandonment, as if he had no concern _whatsoever_ for his own well being. He then seemed well and truly _mad_, the doctor thought, with a viciousness unrelenting, one without bounds. The other prisoners would pause with apprehension when faced up against him, doubtless seeing the insanity there, standing back and away.

But he wouldn't allow them the chance to change their minds, to reconsider their choice to engage him, launching himself at them with brutality and nothing but the intent to harm, undeterred utterly when they would manage to land a blow of their own, or _blows_. He would just keep coming, no matter what, with the same intensity, the same determination.

After a time, Dr. Bartholomew had to stop, shutting the video off.

Removing his glasses, he massaged the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing in thought.

He hadn't yet prescribed any medication for the Joker, due partially to the fact he hadn't yet determined exactly what mental disorders he suffered from, at least, not all. He'd only thus far conducted three sessions with him, after all. More though, he'd wanted a chance to talk to the Joker without the influence of drugs, to get an idea of what kind of condition he was in.

But after the conclusion of their last session, the safe thing would be to prescribe, at the very least, a sedative of some kind. After that, he could take his time finding the exact right kinds of medication for him.

He wondered, after the footage he'd just watched, and seeing the Joker explode like he did without any apparent provocation, whether he may have suffered hallucinations.

It would make sense, Bartholomew thought.

That was something he was going to have glean.

/

They had something new in store tonight.

Because they'd fractured one of his ribs during their last little get together, they were going to have to let up on the beatings, at least until it healed, lest they draw too much attention to themselves.

They wouldn't lose their jobs, but if the Joker's injuries became too severe, they might be taken off as his attendants. And they didn't want that.

This was too much fun.

Russell's hand buried itself deep in the Joker's hair, his fingers digging in to the madman's scalp.

Viciously he jerked his head back.

"You ever drunk hose water, _freak_?" The orderly asked, close to his ear.

The Joker chuckled.

They'd chained his hands above his head, to the piping running along the shower rooms ceiling.

Stevens stood in front of him, holding a hose. Teddy-Bear and Brandon stood on either side of him, smug smiles adorning their stupid faces.

"You'd be _surprised_ Rufflesss." He said, grinning. "At some of the thingsss I've put in my bodyyy."

The orderly's expression was one of disgust, frowning as he looked to Stevens.

"Put it in his mouth." He said, still holding tight to the Joker's hair, making sure he couldn't move his head.

Stevens complied, stepping forward and forcing the nozzle of the hose past the madman's lips.

Russell's reached over, clamping his free hand over the Joker's nose and mouth, squeezing.

"Now turn it on." He ordered.

Brandon moved to it, turning a handle on the wall to their right.

Water came high pressured from the nozzle, in to the Joker's mouth.

Russell's clamped his hand tighter over the inmates face, forcing him to swallow it down.

"More!" He yelled. "Give him more!"

Brandon turned the pressure up, and soon the water was coming so hard and fast it was leaking out from behind Russell's hand, the Joker's eyes squeezing shut.

For nearly a full minute they kept it up, and then Stevens pulled the nozzle away, Russell's doing the same with his hand.

Immediately the Joker began throwing up liquid, on to the floor, doubling over and hanging forward by his arms.

He chocked and gasped deeply as the orderlies around him laughed, convinced they'd finally gotten to him.

But their mirth was cut short as the madman's cough's slid abruptly in to a haggard laughter of his own.

"Hee… heeheehee…" He hung limply, the cuffs digging painfully in to his thin wrists. "T-that was _fun_ boysss…" He began. "L-let's d-do it again, huh?"

All the men frowned deeply, Brandon's mouth hanging open in shock.

And than Russell's face morphed in to rage, his lips curling in to a snarl.

"You piece of shit!" He spit. "It's no wonder you're in this fuckin' place!"

The Joker's laughter only grew stronger then as he got his breath back.

Russell's slapped him hard across the mouth, trying to make him stop.

"WOO HA HA!" The madman roared with laughter, feeling the inside of his mouth cut on his teeth and the familiar taste of blood on his tongue. "That's the _spirit_! G-give it to me nice and gooood." He kept laughing.

A frustrated scream tore from Russell's throat and he slapped the Joker again, eliciting only more hysterics.

"Give it to him again!" The orderly spit.

Stevens did, forcing the nozzle past the madman's lips, Russell's once more clamping his hand tight over his nose and mouth. And for nearly two minutes this time, they repeated the torture, and again, when they finally pulled the nozzle away, the Joker threw the water back up, once more chocking hard and gasping deep, only for the hacking to slip in to more laughter.

The same feeling of dread from before gripped the men as they took in the sight of the Joker, laughing hysterically as he hung helpless from the piping.

"There's something wrong with you." Theo said. "You're fuckin' crazy."

The Joker's laughter cut abruptly, and he lifted his eyes, staring directly at the orderly, his eyes cold.

He shook his head slowly.

"I'm notcrazy Teddy-Bearr."

"Y-you are…"

Again the Joker shook his head.

"Nooo…" He said. "No. It's just _you_ boys. You boy's are _cowardsss_. Asssingning what reaction you would have to _me_. And anything not like youuu…" He grinned. "Must _some_how be inherently _wrooong_."

/

They'd gotten mad at what he'd said. Of course, that had been the Joker's intent. And after Russell's had proceeded to slap him across the face a few times more, they'd again shoved the hose nozzle in to his mouth, forcing more water down his throat before they decided to just turn it on his body and face, spraying him with the thing for five minutes straight, turning up the pressure even more, leaving him completely drenched and his skin stinging.

They hadn't bothered with changing his cloths, throwing him back in to his cell with his uniform soaked through and clinging to his skin.

Doubtless they hoped he'd catch pneumonia or some such.

They'd been _awfully_ pissed.

He smirked, thinking of it.

And he did the same, thinking of Bartholomew.

The doctor was a sadist, searching for ways to bother and humiliate him, all under the guise of _therapy_.

And he was a _fool_, if he didn't think the Joker could see the game he played.

That game was his _own_, and he was infinitely more adept at it.

Bartholomew was used to dealing with people not possessed of all their mental faculties. People who heard and saw things not there.

But the Joker knew, he _knew_ he wasn't crazy. He wasn't insane.

By their own definition of the word, it was they who were _mad_. Blinding themselves to the reality of the world, and to that of their own nature.

And it was a typical response, throwing him in a place like this, propagating the lie that _he_ was the one suffering from delusion, taking the focus away from themselves, away from their own lunacy.

But it didn't matter.

He'd given the doctor warning, ample enough.

If he persisted in his little _mind games_, the Joker concluded, he was going to show him just what it meant to _unravel_ a man's brain, and drive him to the edge of reason.

/

"Jonathan, I'm going to have to _insist_ that you give me your attention!" Dr. Conner's hissed.

Jonathan looked at the older man, his expression bored.

"You'll have to… _insist_?" He asked. "And why, Richard, is that?"

"Because otherwise there's no point to these sessions Jonathan! That's why!"

"Was there ever point to begin with?" The Scarecrow asked.

"This is disrespectful Jonathan." Conner's said, exasperated. "You're above this kind of behavior."

Jonathan turned fully towards him then, feigned surprise adorning his handsome features.

"And you're assuming yourself to be _worthy _of respect, Richard?" He asked.

The psychiatrist looked back at him, his mouth hung slightly open.

Jonathan smiled.

"Therein lies the problem, doesn't it Richard? You think enough of yourself that… what you say should be worth my attention. As if you're actually spouting words of enlightenment. As if I'm going to _learn_ something of myself by listening to _you_."

A soft chuckle escaped his lips.

"Oh, but that's _fine_ Richard. You can hardly be blamed for the blatant drop in standards this institutes seen, ever since Jeremiah _lucked_ in to the position of director. You're not the decision maker here, so you can't really be blamed if doctor's with _sub-par_ qualifications are being let through the door."

Dr. Conner's stared with unhidden shock at the Scarecrow, which slowly turned to anger, then disgust.

"I think that will be all for today Jonathan." He finally managed, his words clipped.

Jonathan smirked.

"Of course it will." He said, his tone making obvious that that had been what he wanted all along.

/

"Had you ever been arrested? Before this last time I mean?" Dr. Bartholomew asked, staring directly at the Joker.

The madman licked his lips.

"They say I'm a, uh, _troubled _boy Doc."

"That doesn't answer my question Joker." The psychiatrist pressed. "There's no records indicating such, but of course, that's not conclusive."

"Ahhh, trying to see how well I _fit _the _profile_?"

Bartholomew paused.

"I'm simply trying to determine when it was certain behavioral patterns established themselves."

"Uh, _same thing_."

Frustration gripped the doctor and he sighed heavily.

"Just answer the question Joker, please."

"So, uh, how is it Doc?" The madman said suddenly.

Bartholomew blinked.

"Excuse me?" He asked, confused.

"The whoooole… pretending to _care_ thing." The Joker went on. "It must be exhausting, huh? Hiding away your _true nature_." He smiled.

The psychiatrist shook his head.

"Stay on topic Joker." He commanded.

"Of course, your line of work provides for the perfect, uh, _cover_, doesn't it? _Dedicated _psychiatrist, _throwing_ himself in to his work, _tirelessly _working to help those poor, forgotten souls, _stricken_ by mental illness." He chuckled. "No one would ever ex_pect _that cover to also be the outlet for your morrrre… unsacoryyyy inclinations, hmm?"

The Joker saw panic flash in the doctor's eyes for the briefest of moments, before covering it quickly with indignation.

"That's _enough _Joker!" He said, sounding on the verge of explosion.

The Joker shrugged.

"I just thought, ya know, it isn't anything you should be _ashamed_ of Doc." The lunatic pushed. "You should be secure with you own, uh, feeeelingssss…"

"Would you like to go back to your cell now?" Bartholomew answered quickly.

The Joker smiled.

"I think you'd like that." He said. And then he again shrugged. "Whatever you want Doc. I'm just trying to be conversationalll."

Bartholomew exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure.

He couldn't allow himself to lose his temper like this.

He began to shuffle through some papers.

"I've decided to prescribe you a sedative." He began, trying to redirect the conversation, away from him.

The Joker's eyes didn't break from him, his tongue running over his lower lip.

"Well, that's just too bad Doc." He said.

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Well I just assuuumed you had the, uh, _brass _to meet me head on." He shrugged.

"I don't know what you're tal…"

"And just when I'd started to develop a kind of _fondness_ for you." The Joker shook his head in supposed disappointment. "I think I could've, uh, re_spec_ted you even. But you had to go and disappoint, hmm?"

"Threatening me won't help you." The psychiatrist answered. "That's precisely what landed you here in the first place."

"Oh it's not a threat Doc…" He smiled. "I'm just trying to help you. It must keep you awake nights. All thossse… _debilitating_ insecuritiessss."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13:**

Fear was a great motivator.

The greatest, really.

But it was important to understand what different kinds there were, and how each could be used to its greatest effect.

There was base fear. Fear of physical harm. Fear of being hurt. Of dying.

And then there was something more complex. Fear of failure, of loss. Of guilt and disappointment, both from others and in yourself. Fear of worthlessness.

Those were the kinds of fears the Joker saw most in Dr. Bartholomew, and the kinds he was most going to exploit.

Right now though, it was the base fear which was winning out.

A nurse, along with three orderlies, had come to his cell the following morning, pill cup in hand, and they'd forced him to take the drugs, ordering him to open his mouth afterwards, to make sure he'd swallowed.

And he had.

The moment they'd left, he'd gone over to the cell's toilet, shoved three of his fingers down his throat and thrown the pill, along with whatever food was still in his stomach, up in to the bowel.

For some seconds, he stood there, staring at mostly clear bile, the capsule floating on its surface.

And then he reached out, flushing it down.

/

Somehow, Jonathan had wound up in the middle of a fight between two other patients.

Well, not _some_ how. He'd been sitting on the couch in the rec. room, staring ahead blankly at the television set, his mind filled with varying, swiftly changing thoughts, when he'd seen some object fly past his face.

His eyes had followed the object, a carton of milk, to its destination, against the forehead of a man he knew to suffer from some form of schizophrenia.

The man had exploded in rage, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"FUCK YOU MILTON!" And then he'd proceeded to fly across the couch, right over the top of the Scarecrow, trying to get at the patient who'd lugged the milk at him.

It was only a matter of seconds before the whole thing had degraded in to an out and out brawl, with Jonathan caught between the two, larger men, they apparently oblivious _completely_ to the fact that their clumsy blows were mostly _missing_ each other and landing instead on _him_.

He'd never been much for "fighting", and so all Jonathan had been able to do was cover his head with his arms and wait until the two inmates were pulled apart by the orderlies.

And it had taken the cretins long enough.

By the time they'd gotten around to lifting their overpaid fingers, the Scarecrow had wound up suffering several fists to the face and across the top of his head, which had resulted in sudden swelling around his eyes and quickly developing black and blue bruises.

The orderlies, not wanting to _themselves_ take the blame for Jonathan's now beaten condition, had immediately taken him to the infirmary, explaining to the nurses in great detail what had happened.

The infirmary had been experiencing an influx that day, and at that very moment, was packed nearly full.

So Jonathan had been sitting there the last, several minutes, waiting, as the nurses attended to apparently more _urgent_ cases.

And it was during that waiting when he heard the double doors of the room's entrance swing open and looking, he saw four orderlies come walking through, dragging with them the Joker.

The Scarecrow instantly sat straight, his eyes fixed on the scarred man as they pulled him along.

He noticed immediately how roughly the orderlies were handling him, despite the fact he appeared to be cooperating.

One of the nurses, Beth, had stopped what she was doing, making her way quickly to the group.

Jonathan watched the entire thing with interest.

She began gesturing towards where he was seated and, wondering why, the Scarecrow quickly came to realize the only available bed in the place was one directly across from his own.

This made him smile.

A moment later, and they were pulling the Joker in his direction.

The Joker had seen him staring. In fact, he'd seemed to notice Jonathan the instant he was brought in, and he looked back at him, his expression blank.

As they came nearer, the Scarecrow noticed the blood dripping down the Joker's left forearm, and as they came closer still, he could see it was coming from what looked like a nasty tear along his skin.

Carelessly the orderlies lifted the thin man up on to the bed, Beth looking exasperated and overwhelmed.

"This is going to have to wait a few minutes." She said frantically. "I've got other patients who need attending."

The orderlies had all looked at her, dumbfounded.

"Just… go wait over there!" She said, gesturing to the double doors. "Make sure no one leaves."

Still with expressions of bemusement, the men began hesitantly to move where she'd instructed.

With all this taking place, Jonathan had been looking at the Joker, the Joker looking directly back.

And as soon as everyone had cleared out, Beth included, running off to see to whichever patient she'd been helping before, a wide smile spread across the scarred man's face.

"Hiya Johnny." He said. "Fancy meeting _you _here."

Jonathan's eyes moved to the madman's arm.

"What happened to you?" He asked.

The Joker blinked at him.

And then his grin grew bigger still, and the Scarecrow once more found himself staring at the scars which ran up along his cheeks, stretching and pulling with the motion.

"A little, uh, _self_-medicating Doc."

"So you did that to yourself then?"

"I was bored."

"Do you always cut yourself up when you're… _bored_?"

The Joker's smile slid in to a smirk.

"Hard to let it _go_, huh Doc?"

The Scarecrows eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me?" He asked.

The madman shrugged.

"Nothing. But the answer is _no_, not alllwaysss."

Jonathan stared hard at him a moment, trying to gauge what he'd been referring to.

"_Smart-ass_." He thought.

"So, how exactly did you _manage_ to do that to yourself?" He asked.

The Joker held up his right hand, and the Scarecrow noticed the drying blood under his long nails.

"They used to, uh, _clip_ em' back at county. But _here_ they haven't bothered."

Several seconds past by in silence, the two continuing to eye each other.

"So, uh, what about _you_ Scary?" The Joker finally spoke. "Something tells me those _powder_ puffs over there didn't do up _your_ pretty face like that."

Jonathan scoffed.

"They wouldn't _dare_."

"Of course not." The lunatic replied, still smiling.

Another moment of silence.

"Lemme guess." The Joker then continued. "_Clearly_ you're not a masochist. _So_, one of the other patients here, hmm? What was it? _Revenge_? No, no." He shook his head. "They wouldn't let one of your little, uh, _experiments_ in to the same room as you. Would they? Nooo. You've got people looking out for you here, don't you Johnny? Former, uh, _colleagues _of yours? Can't let anything _too_ bad happen to one of their ooown. Even _if_ one of their own is a whack job. So either you, uh, _pissed_ one of the loonies off with that smug attitude of yours, orrr, you somehow found yourself caught in the middle of one of their pissing contestssss. Hmm?"

Jonathan stared at the madman for a moment, saying nothing.

This kid really _was_ smart.

But that didn't mean he was beyond emotion.

"Does that bother you?" The Scarecrow finally answered. "That those buffoons are scared enough of _me _that they refrain from doing serious harm, and yet they've made _you _their personal punching bag?"

The Joker exploded almost immediately in to high pitched laughter.

"They're… heehee… they're not scared of _you_ Johnny. They're just afraid of losing their jobsss."

Jonathan couldn't help the look of annoyance which flashed across his features.

He didn't like to be undermined.

"Though… hee… to be _fair_, they really _should_ fear you." The Joker went on. "But I'm sure you'll, uh, _forgive_ them their transgressionssss… hehee"

The Scarecrow could feel his jaw tighten.

He couldn't tell if the Joker had actually meant that last line or if he was just poking fun at him.

He decided to again try and turn it around.

He'd be _damned_ if he let someone else start analyzing him.

"Well it's just, I imagine it must be difficult. You pretty much had this entire city under your foot while you were out there. I don't think anyone would have _dared_ cross you. And now, here you are, at the mercy of a bunch of monosyllabic dimwits, getting beat to a pulp almost nightly, talked down to and made fun of. That must be hard to take, I imagine. Hard to accept?"

The Joker only grinned.

"I've had worse."

Jonathan frowned.

"I'm guessing it must be harder for you, huh Scary?" He went on. "I mean, you used to _run_ this place, didn't you?"

The Scarecrow regarded him with clear displeasure now.

"Where you from Scary?"

"You tell me first." Jonathan was fast to answer.

"Me? Here, there, everywhere." The madman chuckled. "But ya know Johnny…" He narrowed his eyes at the smaller man, nodding. "You're an _in_teresting guyyy. _I_ think. You're obsessed with fear."

Jonathan shifted.

"I'm fascinated by its affect on people, yes." He replied, attempting to sound nonchalant about the whole thing.

The Joker shook his head.

"No. No, that's not it. You're obsessed with your _own _fear. You want to, uh, to under_stand_ it so you can control it, huh? By con_trolling_ it, you think you can get _rid _of it." Again he shook his head, his tongue running fast over his lips. "But that's not how it works. Is it Johnny? Fear is something _primal_. Something you can't control. Can't rationalizzze…"

The Scarecrow looked uncomfortable now.

The Joker continued.

"So what is it you're afraid of Johnny? Lack of _power_? And what caused _that_, I wonder? You're trying to project your own inse_cur_itieesss on to meee. I'll bet you got picked on a lot as a kid, huh Scary? Found yourself constantly, uh, _dominated_ by big, dumb jocks? And there wasn't really anything you could _do_ about it, was there?"

Jonathan's hand had clenched to fists by now, and he was trying very hard _not_ to lose his temper.

"Well, since we're discussing _fears_, Joker, what exactly is it you're afraid of?" He said, trying to direct the conversation away from himself.

"Nothing Doc. I'm fear free. Get it? Fear free!" The madman laughed.

"I highly doubt that." Jonathan went on, sounding confidant. "Everyone fears something."

The Joker smiled.

"You think you know so much."

"I know that you never answer a question about yourself directly. That you're constantly trying to steer the conversation away from you. Deflect it in some way"

The Joker smirked.

"Like you're doing now Johnny?"

"And what about that face paint you wear?" The Scarecrow said quickly, ignoring the remark, not wanting to lose his momentum. "All this is a clear sign of insecurity. Fear of judgment."

"Oh, no Scary." The Joker said. "That's all for the benefit of othersss. Not _mine_. You see, the _key_… to really messing with someone is to keep them off balance. Uncertainty. There's nothing _worse _then uncertainty. It's the not _know_ing which really eats away at a person's sanityyy… If they don't _know_ it, they can't control it, and it's what they can't _control_…which really puts the fear in em'. Like right now. You're _uncertain_ of me, aren't you Johnny? Oh, you're doing a decent enough job _hi_ding it, with your steady voice and your… _unwavering_ eyes. But you can't tell if I'm telling the truth or not, hmm? And that makes you unsure. Makes you doubt your next mooove…" He winked suddenly, than laughed.

"… You're not telling the truth." The Scarecrow said, still managing to sound sure.

The problem was, he _wasn't_.

The Joker had _appeared _sincere. There was no dilation of his pupils, his eyes hadn't shifted to his left when he spoke.

Jonathan knew he was quite adept at reading body language.

And he could detect no physical signs the Joker was lying.

But that was _absurd_.

He _had_ to be lying.

_Everyone_ felt fear. The lunatic had said it himself. It was something primal. Something deep rooted in _all_ of us.

And yet, this man before him, a practical _boy_, seemed totally without it. Not just from everything Jonathan had seen and heard from him on the news, and from Fredrick in the rec. room, but now, in his _claiming_ it. From everything the Scarecrow could tell, it was the _truth_. But his mind couldn't accept that. It seemed too improbable, too _implausible_.

_Everyone_ felt fear.

And it was with dismay he realized, he really had no _clue_ about the Joker at all.

He suddenly didn't want to be here anymore.

The Joker was staring back at him, still smiling.

"If you say so Johnny." He said. "But listen, we shouldn't be fighting like this. What we _really_ need to do is talk about blowing this popsicle stand."

Jonathan's eyes flashed in annoyance.

"You need to let go this delusion that you'll be getting out of here." He said sharply. "The security in Arkham is absurdly tight. The only way out is through a clean bill of health. And I'm afraid with everything you've done, you won't be seeing that anytime soon."

"Don't be so _negative_ Johnny!" The Joker said happily. "There's _always_ a way out."

"Not out of here." The Scarecrow replied, his voice clipped in anger.

"Oh, come on! Between you and I, I think we can find a way."

"You and _me_." Jonathan corrected.

The Joker's eyes narrowed.

"Right. Listen. I _like _you Scary. You're the only really _smart_ guy I've met in this stink hole. So even if you're not willing to help me, uh, _bust_ outtahere, I promise when I do, I'll come and get ya. Think of all the _fun_ we could have, tearing this town up together!"

Jonathan stared back at the taller man, his bright, blue eyes intent.

And then he folded his arms over his chest, looking away.

"Sure. When you've figured out how to get past the _numerous_ security measures they've in place here, the guards, cameras, orderlies, the magnetically locked _cell doors_, all of that? You let me know, and we'll take each others hands and go skipping off in to the sunset together. How's that sound?"

"_That's_ the spirit Johnny!" The Joker exclaimed, seeming not the least bit fazed by the former psychiatrist's obvious sarcasm.

Their conversation was interrupted when two women came in to their line of sight. Beth and another nurse, one the Joker hadn't ever seen before, but who Jonathan knew well.

/

That hadn't gone how he'd hoped it would.

He'd known the Joker was intelligent. He'd known he was _highly_ intelligent.

But he supposed he'd underestimate the extent of just how smart he was.

Playing _games _with the man was a foolish endeavor.

Something he should have known better then to try.

But he hadn't been able to help himself, wanting to get inside the head of Arkham's newest addition.

He guessed that's what the Joker had meant, when he said "Hard to let go, huh Doc?".

He'd been referring to Jonathan's inclination as a psychiatrist to try and analyze and dissect everyone he talked to.

But in attempting it with the Joker, he'd had the process reversed on him, and it had been done in such a subtle manner, he hadn't even realized it until after the fact.

Really, if he was being honest with himself, the Scarecrow rather admired the Joker's obviously immense ability to read people. He was ridiculously perceptive.

Everything he'd said to Jonathan had been true, as grudging as the former psychiatrist was to admit it.

Jonathan thought he really shouldn't be mad at the Joker for it. He'd stepped in to that one himself, after all.

But his pride wasn't allowing him to let it go.

It was usually _he_ who saw things in people, saw past their exterior, in to what made them tick. In to their fears and desires. And it was usually he who would then used those things to unravel them, to get inside their heads and manipulate them.

But the Joker was better at that game then he was.

He was downright _brilliant_ at it, in fact.

And that made Jonathan mad.

The Joker had been so _unfazed_ by everything he'd tried, at his every attempt to get to him.

He wasn't used to that. He was used to his words riling people. Inciting them.

Instead, the Joker had wound up doing that to him.

Jonathan couldn't help the desire to wipe the grin from the lunatic's face.

If only he could somehow whip up a batch of his fear toxin and use it on the scarred man…

That was the other thing. Whether he was lying or telling the truth about himself, about feeling no fear.

But that was something the Scarecrow found himself unable to accept, unable to believe.

If there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was that, in almost every instance, people's actions were primarily motivated by fear.

It was inconceivable to him that someone could be without it.

The Joker had appeared sincere to him.

But _reading _the Joker was something impossible, he found.

The madman was so absurdly good at controlling and altering the perception of whoever he was speaking with, that whatever it was he wanted you to think about him, then _that _was what you were going to think about him.

The only way Jonathan could think of to find out the truth _would _be to expose him to his toxin.

In his current position, that wasn't going to happen.

He would have to somehow escape…

He felt his eyes go slightly wide.

Christ, now the clown had him entertaining impossible notions.

And he couldn't help wondering, had that been the Joker's intention all along?

Give him the motivation to want to escape, and so get him subconsciously thinking it could be done.

"Damn him…" Jonathan whispered, rubbing at his temples.


	14. Chapter 14

**Just want to give a shout out to Nikki for helping me correct a grammatical error on my last chapter which otherwise would have made me look like a complete idiot. So thanks Nikki!**

**Chapter 14:**

"Have you been sleeping at all?"

The Joker stared blankly for a moment, than blinked.

"Uh, _no_."

"But you've been taking the sedative I've prescribed you?"

"Sure Doc. They make me nauseas."

"Well yes, that is a side affect."

The Joker said nothing.

"They're to help you relax."

"What can I say Barth? I guess I've got what you might call a, uh, _hyperactive_ mind."

"So you haven't been sleeping at all?"

"Whatever the minimum amount is for you _not_ to die… that's what I've been sleeping."

Bartholomew smiled tightly.

"The sedatives should be helping."

"Well they're not Doc. Sorry to disap_point_."

"If it's found out you haven't been taking them Joker, I'm afraid they'll have to be administered intravenously."

All at once, the madman's eyes seemed to grow darker, even as his brows rose in questioning.

"Is that _right _Doc?" He asked.

The look was unmistakable. There was warning there.

The psychiatrist averted his gaze.

"Let's move on, shall we?" He began.

He got no answer.

"Your facial scars…" He went on, looking up. "Do you remember a time in your life when you _didn't_ have them?"

The Joker's tongue swept quickly over his bottom lip, his head tilting slightly.

"Do you remember a time in your life when you _didn't_ want to assert control over another person's mind?"

Bartholomew blinked.

"What?"

"Listen Doc. I'm not, uh, _accusing_ you of anythinggg. I'm just trying to help you come to terms with who you are. To accept that there's nothing _wrong_… with it."

Once more, the doctor looked away.

"As usual Joker, you're thoughts about me couldn't be more off the mark."

"Oh, I don't think so." The Joker grinned. "You pride yourself on your ability to, uh, _deconstruct _the way a person's mind works. Hmm? It gives you a kind of… _rush_. Now don't be bashful Dr. Bartholomeeew… I can recognize talent when I see it. And you… you've got the gift. The problem is, _this _place… Ya see… You're being here _restricts_ you. This kind of… _controlled_, regulated environment… limits your creativity, doesn't it? You don't belong here. No… no, _you_ need to be… some place without all these… _rules_… all these _boundaries_. You need to be some place you can thrive, where you're allowed to reach your fullll… _potentialll_." He nodded, smiling.

Dr. Bartholomew was staring at him with what the Joker easily recognized as hopefulness, and he knew instantly he'd struck the right nerve.

It would only be a matter of time then.

"Are you uncomfortable talking about the scars?"

The psychiatrist tried quickly to appear unfazed, switching subjects.

"I'm asking because I think the apparent amnesia about your past may have been the result of a traumatic experience."

The lunatic only smiled.

/

"I want to speak with him. _Unsupervised_."

Jonathan sat back, folding his arms across his chest, eyeing the psychiatrist from over the rim of his glasses.

Dr. Conner's stared back, a look purely incredulous on his face.

"Jonathan, you _know_ that's impossible."

"Then _make_ it possible." The Scarecrow countered, not missing a beat.

The man across from him looked incredibly nervous.

"Listen, Jonathan, you know this institutes policies better then most. You know high risk patients aren't allowed to interact with one another…"

Jonathan only smirked.

"I am _aware _of this institutes policies Richard. I also am aware of how _lax_ Arkham's staff can be in enforcing those policies. It's doubtful anyone would bat more then an eyelid at you requesting our meeting and suggesting it as a therapeutic experiment."

Richard looked as though he were about to respond, but he was cut short.

"They would, however, be forced to look in to any claims of mental and emotional abuse made by your star patient, wouldn't they Richard?"

The psychiatrist blinked.

"E-excuse me?" He stammered.

"Believe me Richard, at this point, they would want to quash any potential scandal as quickly as possible. And there's no better way to do so then to get rid of whoever the accusations are being leveled against. You're disposable Richard. Remember that."

He couldn't help but smile at the completely shocked, troubled expression on Conner's face.

"You… you wouldn't…"

"Yes Richard. I would."

"But… h-how do you expect me to… to convince the _board_? They'll never…"

"I'm sure you'll think of something Richard." Jonathan again interrupted, his head tilting. "After all, you're a _fairly_ intelligent man..."

/

It had worked. Dr. Conner's had somehow convinced Arkham and the board that allowing the Joker to speak with Jonathan Crane would be a good idea.

Jonathan didn't know how he'd done it, and he didn't much care.

All he cared about was that he was now being led to a room where, he was told, the Joker was already waiting.

Conner's had only been able to obtain partially unsupervised meetings. They'd insisted the sessions in the least be video monitored.

Jonathan had anticipated that would be the case, and had been slightly taken aback when Richard told him the visual would be muted, so they could talk undisturbed.

He hadn't questioned it, but he thought either it must be a lie, or the people running the asylum really _were_ complete idiots.

Or maybe just ignorant.

They hadn't, after all, ever dealt with someone like the Joker, or himself for that matter.

And he very much doubted Richard would have the _gall_ to lie to him.

The man was utterly intimidated.

When they finally reached the room, there were several guards positioned outside it, plus the two escorting him.

The one to his right asked for the door to be opened, and one of the men complied, pulling out a ring of keys and unlocking it.

It swung wide and they led the Scarecrow in.

He was quick to spot the Joker, seated at a bare, metal table, his wrists handcuffed and connected by a long chain to a set of manacles around his ankles.

He was staring at the table top, at apparently nothing, his hands in his lap, his legs bouncing.

He didn't look up at the sound of the door opening.

Nor when the guards led Jonathan to his seat, directly opposite the madman.

"We can stay if you like…" One of them spoke.

The Scarecrow shook his head.

"No. That won't be necessary."

There was a pause, and then the same guard cleared his throat.

"Well alright. We'll be right outside this door then."

Jonathan said nothing, keeping his eyes on the figure before him.

He waited until, from his peripheral, he saw them move, and then heard the door shut, before speaking again.

"What are you looking at?" He asked, his eyes moving to the spot he thought the Joker's were staring.

For several seconds, the taller man didn't speak, and Jonathan thought for a moment he hadn't heard him.

He was about to ask when he was beaten to it.

"The, uh, _pattern _of the metal is interestinnng…" The Joker said.

And then he looked up, smiling.

Jonathan regarded him a moment, silent.

"I'm impressed Scarecrow." The Joker continued. "You got this done faster then I thought you would."

The Scarecrow smirked.

"You said yourself I have connections. Are you really so surprised?"

"Not really." The Joker answered. "But you're, uh, working _ahead_ of schedule."

Jonathan's head tilted.

"And what schedule would that be?"

"Are they listening?"

"Dr. Conner's tells me no." Jonathan answered.

"And what do you _think _of Dr. Conner's?"

"He's like a frightened child. I doubt he has the nerve to lie to me. He knows what would happen if he did."

The Joker smiled wide.

"Well I guess we'll find out, either way, hmm?"

He laughed loudly.

The Scarecrow frowned.

"What are you planning?" He asked.

"_Well_…" The lunatic leaned closer, the chains of his cuffs clinking loudly. "I've got this Doc…"

"Bartholomew." Jonathan interrupted.

The Joker's eyes brightened.

"You really _do_ have connections, huh Scary?"

"Just rumors. Overhearing gossip among the staff."

The Joker chuckled.

"That's _still_ more then I've got Spooky."

Jonathan couldn't help studying the Joker when in this close proximity to him, his eyes scanning over every detail of the man.

He was thin, but not extremely so, like himself; and tall. And though clearly young, there was a kind of intensity about him, like he'd seen more and knew more then any person several times his age.

And he was _mean_, unforgiving and unsympathetic. That was obvious, just from his eyes, from the dark in them, and the unflinching way they would stare, cold and unmoving.

He had no _kindness_ in him.

No relatable qualities.

No part of him one might find themselves able to appeal to.

He was frightening. Horrifying even.

And as Jonathan had already known and learned, he was _smart_.

All that, of course, made him dangerous. _Exceptionally_ dangerous.

That already without taking in to account his supposed lack of fear.

It was something the former psychiatrist wanted to put to the test.

But this was not a man you would want as your enemy.

That much was clear. And it was something Jonathan had been fast to figure out, since he himself was also smart.

Not like the orderlies who now were having their fun with the madman.

They would pay for that, one way or another. After talking with the Joker, that was something Jonathan was now sure of.

"Barthy's a bit of a, uh, _sadist_."

The Joker's nasal voice broke his train of thought.

Jonathan blinked.

"I'm aware." He said.

"I figured you would be." The Joker answered. "The _problem _for the poor guy _is_… he's in de_nial_. Ya see… he doesn't really understand his own… _emotions_."

"Are you sure about that?" The Scarecrow asked. "From what I've observed of Dr. Bartholomew, he's quite aware of what he's doing."

"Oh, he knows what he's doing." The Joker agreed. "He just doesn't know _why _he's doing it."

Jonathan blinked.

"… And?"

"_Annnd_… that meanssss feelings of persecution and exploitation will be _easy_ to cultivate _in him_."

Jonathan's brow furrowed, and he breathed deeply, letting it go.

"Sooo… you're big plan is, _what_? Make him feel like no one understands his _pain_?"

"Something like that."

The shorter man just stared at him, saying nothing.

"He's going to help me _escape_ Johnny." The Joker finally said. "And then I'm going to help _you_." He grinned, his yellowed teeth showing.

Jonathan almost laughed, but somehow was able to catch it.

"Joker, the doctors here may be susceptible to manipulation, but there are some things even _they_ won't do."

The Joker shook his head.

"No Scary, no. Every _one's_ capable of any _thing_. You just have to know which buttons to push."

"_How_?" The Scarecrow asked plainly. "How are you going to convince him that he should help a _mass murderer_ escape?"

The Joker smirked.

"The same way I, uh, _convinced_ you escape was possible in the first place."

Jonathan sat back.

"You didn't con…"

"I got you _thinking_ about it." The madman cut him short. "You wouldn't _beee_ here if you weren't at least entertaaaining the idea. Sometimes all it takes is the proper _motivation_ to make someone consider something which earlier they would have dismissed."

The Scarecrow went silent, staring back.

He couldn't deny that.

The Joker _had _gotten him thinking of escape, and he'd done it by playing off his anger, as well as his curiosity, making him mad enough to the point he longed to break out, if only for the purpose of revenge, and to see if what the madman claimed of himself was true.

Jonathan had resigned himself to the idea that escaping the asylum was nothing short of a total impossibility.

He'd come to terms with that. With the fact the best he could hope for was an eventual, _legal_ release on good behavior and evidence of mental sanity.

The Joker had torn that resignation from him and given him a very real, burning desire to get out _now_, and with it, the notion of that desires attainability.

And he hadn't even realized what the lunatic had done until _after_ they'd stopped talking.

Definitely someone you'd want on your side, not against.

Jonathan cleared his throat.

"Alright. Assuming you're able to convince Dr. Bartholomew to… _let you go_, how exactly do I play in to your little _plan_?"

The Joker smiled.

"I like you Scary." He began. "I trust you too. I think you'd be good to have on the outsiiide."

"As what?" Jonathan half laughed. "Your lackey?"

"No, no, no." The Joker shook his head. "As partneeersss. You and me could take over this town Scary. Just think of it!"

"You and _I_."

The madman's eyes narrowed.

"You're, uh, gonna have to _stop _that though." He said.

The Scarecrow couldn't help the smirk which slid up on to his lips.

"Why?" He said. "Can it be there's actually something that the _Joke_r finds troublesome?"

The Joker's eyes narrowed further, his mouth twisting noticeably to a frown.

"Look, your, uh, _job_ once I get the Doc. to cough up his _pass_ key, since you're so well _acquainted_ with the place, is gonna be to lead us _out_."

"Even if we don't exit through the front, Arkham is crawling with guards and orderlies. How do you expect to get past them all?"

The Joker smiled.

"You just leave that to me Scarechum."


	15. Chapter 15

**Hey everyone. So, this chapter and the next few will be going in to a flashback, pre-Joker days, so to speak. Hope you like it and as always, reviews are appreciated.**

**Chapter 15:**

He'd been in a place like this before.

Years ago now, but he could remember.

The _last_ thing he remembered.

Everything before then was gone, except those brief bursts of picture and sound which sometimes would invade his mind. And those times were accompanied by blackouts, periods when he wasn't aware of himself or his actions, couldn't recall what he'd done or where he'd been.

He didn't know how he'd suffered the loss of memory, but he had, the point of any clear, vivid recollection beginning at a state mental institute in New Haven.

How he'd gotten there, he didn't know, nor had the institute's staff.

They'd told him he'd simply been found one day, lying unconscious across the steps of an adjacent hospitals front entrance, beaten to hell.

Supposedly, he's been in a coma for two weeks following, and when he'd woken, he'd been near uncontrollable, lashing out in outbursts so violent they'd had to keep him heavily sedated to administer any kind of health care.

He wouldn't talk to them, tell them anything of himself, and in their minds, it had been clear he was suffering some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.

That had been when they'd sent him to the asylum.

There they pestered him with the same questions, wanting to know his name, where he'd come from, what had happened to him, fascinated most of all by the severe scarring running up from the corners of his mouth.

The scars, from what they could tell, were fairly recent, probably obtained sometime in the last two or three months, and clearly they'd never been properly treated or given time to heal.

He remembered they hurt then, whenever he made any sort of expression, smiling or frowning, a grimace of any kind, they would resist the movement, pull against it, and he would force it anyway, through the pain.

"Were you involved in some kind of gang?" They kept questioning.

He only stared back, his expression blank.

He didn't know. He didn't know the answer to any of their ridiculous questions, and even if he had, he wouldn't have answered them, with their _feigned _concern, their eyes filled with morbid curiosity, betraying the truth of their intentions.

He'd hated them, he remembered; hated their falsity, and their inability to admit it, to even _realize_ it. They were deluded about themselves, about their positions and their motivations.

He was their little lab experiment, they poking and prodding him, drugging him in to submission, to do with him what they wished.

But he was violent.

He'd always _been_ violent, from what he knew of himself; what little he knew. It was something deep inside him, in his bones, and he understood somehow it wasn't anything sudden, or even developed. It just _was_. Violence was born in him, in his very blood.

That was made clear when, one day, unprovoked, he'd taken hold one of their nurses heads, slamming it against a wall with enough force to knock her cold and fracture her skull.

They were frightened of him.

Of his erratic, uncontrolled behavior.

The apprehensive stare of their eyes when they looked at him, it was a stare he could recall on the faces of others, people he didn't remember or recognize, but saw still.

He envisioned them all, dead, their bodies mutilated, torn wide for all the world to see and stand back from in horror.

The thought had made him smile then. It made him smile now.

They'd tried reining him in, and he scarcely went a moment without sedation then, they feeling secure in their ability to handle him when he was in their drug induced state.

And for maybe a period of six months, they kept him.

But New Haven Asylum hadn't been a high security facility, like Arkham.

And so after a time, he left, slipping off in to the night, unnoticed and unseen.

He remembered the night he left, it was cold, the wind chill making it worse, whipping through his short, blonde hair, clawing in to his scalp, easily penetrating the thin layers of the pajama like garments he wore.

He didn't know where he was, and certainly had no clue where he was headed.

He found a road, a freeway of some kind, just a little ways past the grounds of the hospital, and for hours he walked it, in the same direction, never stopping, never looking back or for one moment doubting his decision to leave.

Every once in a long while a car would speed by, and he held his thumb out, trying to hitch a ride. But every one drove past, never slowing down.

He wanted to get to a city. That much he knew. Which one, he didn't care. But a city. Some place busy.

He felt almost compelled towards it.

And finally, the sixth car which came up slowed, pulling over along the side of the road, a little ways ahead of him.

He walked to it, pulling the passenger door open, bending down to look in.

"Where you headed?" The man inside asked.

"Any place you are." He answered.

"I'm goin' to New York." The man replied.

He nodded in return, slipping in to the seat.

The driver stared wide eyed when he did, getting his first good look at him.

"What the hell happened to your face kid?"

He kept his eyes fixed on the dashboard, and after a long moment, he shrugged.

"Couple a guys jumped me." He lied. "Wanted my money. I didn't, uh, _have_ any."

The man rubbed his chin, nodding.

"Tough break kid." He said.

The boy said nothing to that.

And so the man put the car in to drive, pulling back on to the road, taking off down it.

For the next half hour or so, the man continued to chat away, asking stupid, inane questions, all the while the boy grew more annoyed and impatient.

He'd hoped his mono-syllabic answers would clue the idiot in that he didn't want to talk, but apparently, it wasn't working.

"Where you from anyway kid?" The man asked. "That's a weird soundin' accent you got there."

He kept staring straight ahead.

Tension was building in his muscles. He could feel it.

"All over." He finally answered.

The man said nothing for some moments.

"You don't talk much, huh kid?"

No reply.

An hour more went by, and at last the driver had shut up, the car filling with silence.

The boy could only hope the rest of the trip would remain as such, but that hope was dashed when the man suddenly pulled the car to the side of the road, putting it in park, turning the ignition off.

The boy turned to look at him, his mouth pulled in to a frown.

The man was staring down at his lap, saying nothing.

"So, is this the part where you, uh, _kick_ me out 'cause you find my company unsatisfactoryyy?"

The man finally looked up, staring at him, and it was immediately the boy knew his intentions were foul.

"You're a pretty little thing." He said, his hand going back, pressing down on the automatic locks. And then he reached forward, trying to brush his fat fingers against the boy's face, trying to touch his scars.

The boy pushed back, away from him.

"Come on darlin'. Just relax. I promise you'll enjoy this."

And this time the man leaned farther, across the threshold separating the seats, reaching his hand out and resting it on the boy's thigh, squeezing.

The boy grabbed the man's wrist.

"Bad idea fucker." He said, his voice low, his fingers curling tight.

The man cried out, trying suddenly, desperately to pull free, but he was held fast.

And then the boy reached forward, burying his free hand in to the man's thinning hair, jerking him roughly forward, and in one, swift movement, slammed his head down, hard against the dashboard, before ripping him back and doing it again.

Three more times, and the man no longer made a sound, going limp in his hands.

The boy pushed him away, watching as he slumped, falling against the driver's side window.

He wanted to kill him.

But then, he wanted also to get away from the man's filth, and it was the latter desire which won out as he reached over his would be assailant and undid the doors locks, opening up the passenger's side and stepping out.

That was stupid of him, he thought, hitching a ride like that.

People weren't to be trusted.

They would do anything if they thought they could get away with it; if they thought they were free from prying eyes.

It didn't matter now, he thought as he walked from the car, the only light available the light of the moon.

He'd seen a sign a ways back, stating fifteen miles to New York.

He could walk that distance.

/

A mile out from the city, and it had started to rain.

By the time he reached it, his clothes had soaked through to the skin and the cold seemed even worse now, his body shaking inadvertently.

He was going to have to find some place warm for the rest of the night, he realized, if he didn't want to end up dead.

But as far as he knew, he'd never been to New York, and he had no idea of where he should go.

In the end, the best he could come up with was a dumpster.

Since his clothes were wet, he had to strip them off and ring them out, hoping that by sunrise, they'd be dry. For himself, he buried in to the trash, closing the dumpsters lid to shield himself from the harsh wind and rain.

He doubted he would find sleep.

He rarely ever did.

But nonetheless, he closed his eyes, to wait for the coming morning.

/

It seemed to come quickly, though he realized it must have been several hours at least when he touched his garments and they nearly were dry.

He'd lapsed out, as he often did, disappearing in to his own mind and forgetting the world around him. When that happened, he lost track totally of time and the goings on of other people.

But the light filtering in through the dumpster's cracks and the growing bustle of life outside had stirred him, and now he found himself eager to get out.

And so he pulled his clothes on, still slightly damp, and emerged from the giant tin box, his eyes squinting at the invasion of sunlight.

He stepped from the alleyway, out on to the street, and immediately, seemingly without warning, he found himself surrounded by huge droves of people, walking towards, away from and past him.

They were oblivious to his presence, at least it appeared that way, most of them with their heads down and moving fast.

It didn't stay that way though as he simply stood still, watching the massive crowds with apparent fascination. It was this which caused several of them to crash directly in to the boy, and then they looked up at him, obvious agitation written across their features.

"Watch where yer goin'!" One man shouted, than stopped as he took in the young man with whom he'd collided. His eyes went slightly wide before, suddenly, he looked away, scurrying off.

Everyone else too seemed to regard him with the same, abrupt fear, taking in his appearance before quickly moving away, pretending they'd never made contact.

The boy felt a kind of disgust at them when he saw the bravado melt so quickly away, their indignation and desire to fight disappearing the moment they perceived him to be something truly dangerous.

Why were people such blatant hypocrites, he wondered.

The thought though was fleeting.

He was in the city now, and at last there would be things to keep him occupied.

Not like back at that hospital, where they expected board games and television to hold his interest.

What he needed was action. He might even say he was driven towards it, if that didn't sound so stupid.

He also thought that drive must have been what landed him on the front steps of that asylum, beat all to hell. Of course, he didn't remember anything of it, how he'd gotten there or who had done it to him. But if the dreams he had during what little sleep he got were any indication, his inclination towards trouble was it.

And who the fuck cared?

He was bored, and that was something worse then pain.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16:**

It hadn't taken him long to find what he was looking for.

He'd spent the day exploring parts of the city, staying mostly away from uptown, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

Mid-afternoon, he'd managed to steal a sandwich from a food cart, and ate it leaning against a worn down tenement building, his eyes darting about, taking in the few sorry souls wondering the streets there.

The misery of the place was reflected in their eyes.

It was sundown when he came across the card game, spotting it through the left open back door of some shitty restaurant.

He'd walked in, uninvited and uncaring.

The men at the table hadn't been pleased.

But he could see just to look at them they weren't easily driven to violence.

And he'd been right.

They looked at him wide eyed, like most people did when they took in the state of his face, but they'd quickly gotten over it, beginning their protests to his presence.

"Yo, kid, this here's a private game. Get the fuck out." One of them started.

He smiled.

"Let me have a seat." He replied.

The man looked startled, and suddenly he began to laugh, looking around at his friends.

"Look at this punk." He said, amused.

"Do you not know what _private _means kid?" Another asked. "."

The boy shook his head.

The second man stood, his palms flat on the table.

"I can always _make_ you." He said.

"So make me."

"Oh, ho ho… you are _really_ startin' to piss me off you little fuck."

The man came around the table, starting straight for the boy.

Reaching him, he took hold of his shirt, jerking him forward.

His eyes roamed over the kid in his hands, taking in his marred features, and then his attire.

His brow furrowed.

"Where the hell'd you come from kid? A hospital or somethin'?"

The boy smiled.

"You, uh, _got_ it."

The man's mouth twisted to a frown, his eyes again scanning over the thin frame of their intruder.

"… Just get outta here." He grunted, pushing him back.

He shrugged.

"You don't think you can beat meee…"

The man laughed.

"What is this? Reverse psychology?"

"Just stating a fact." The boy said easily.

"Oh, so now it's a fact I can't beat you at poker, huh?"

"Of course it is."

The man looked at him in clear disbelief, his eyes running up and down his form.

"How old are you kid?" He asked. "You look about fifteen, but I ain't never seen a fifteen year old with your kinda moxy."

"Seventeen." The boy answered. Though that wasn't true. He actually didn't know how old he was, and he didn't care.

The man continued to study him, and finally, he smirked.

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't." The boy answered, smiling back.

"So what is it?" The man pushed.

"Why waste time with needless introductionssss?" The boy pushed past him, heading straight for the table, sitting without so much as asking.

The rest of the men stared bemusedly.

"Well I'm Stew and this here's MY game buddy boy."

The man followed, standing over him.

The boy seemed to ignore him, reaching forward and taking hold of the deck.

Stew frowned.

"You got money?" He asked.

At this the boy stopped, looking up at him, an expression of confusion across his features.

"Uh… _no_." He answered, as though that should be obvious.

Stew couldn't help it as a laugh escaped his lips.

"You serious kid? You just walk in here with no money and expect we'll let you play?"

"Uh… yeah." The boy said with the same assuredness.

Again Stew laughed, bringing his hand to the back of his neck, shaking his head.

"You got real balls." He chuckled. "Anyone else I woulda' thrown out. But you I like."

The boy looked away, beginning to shuffle the cards.

"But you gotta have money to play." Stew went on.

"Lend me some cash." The boy said. "I'll pay you back with the money I win."

Stew scoffed, and the others began to laugh.

"You that sure you'll win, huh?"

The boy only nodded.

And so the men agreed to let him play, figuring he'd be out of what small amount they gave him by the end of the first hand, and they'd be rid of him.

But it didn't go that way.

Within a period of an hour and a half, he'd cleaned out the lot of them.

It hadn't been hard. Their faces had been easy to read. He knew just when they were bluffing and when it was they held the real deal. And his own expressions he was able to control. They thought he was cheating, he could tell. But he wasn't, unless you call being able to see through people cheating.

It was weird for him, in a way. It was like he could see what people were thinking. He didn't even know how. He just knew. And so he'd use it against them. Because he knew just as well, if they had the same ability, they'd do the same to him.

He wound up giving the men the money he'd borrowed, and letting them keep most of what he'd taken from them. He needed only enough to buy food and get in to more games.

They'd been stunned, erupting in to various questions, wanting to know who he was, why he was doing what he was, where he was from. On and on. He'd ignored all of it, taking $50.00 and disappearing.

The weeks to follow, he'd gone about the same way. Finding various poker games throughout the city, talking his way in, proceeding to trounce everyone involved. It was fun for him, making people look stupid. It was so easy, after all. Sometimes he took the money, sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he would take it and throw it in a trash bin.

People asked him questions, but he never gave them answers. At least, nothing true. He was a good liar though. People believed him.

Partially it was because he really didn't _know_ the answers to their inquiries, partially it was because he knew it best to reveal as little about himself as possible. People only ever wanted to know about you so they could then talk about you behind your back or use the information for their own gains.

Most everyone asked the same things. Said the same things.

It was both extraordinary and agitating to him how alike most people thought.

After a time, he'd begun to build a reputation in several of the cities bureaus. It was in Queens where he'd been confronted by a local card shark claiming to be the best player in all of New York and wanting to challenge him to a game.

Of course, he'd easily accepted, seeing the man's ridiculous confidence, and knowing how very upset he'd be once he lost. Doubtless he'd cry foul and accuse him of cheating. And looking at him and his little gang, it was also apparent, once this happened, they'd want to 'show him what for', as they say.

But that was all the more reason to accept.

Life was so dull when one tried always to avoid danger.

/

His favorite card in the deck was the Joker. He insisted always that it be allowed in the game.

He liked it because everyone else hated it. A card which could turn a poor hand in to a great hand, a card which could steal away another's almost assured win, a card one couldn't predict. He liked it because it reminded him of himself. The little jester on the card's face, always smiling. He didn't smile much at all. But his scars smiled all the time.

They were both mischief makers, laughing, laughing at the world and all its stupidity.

"Joker's in." He said as he took his seat.

Rory, the self-proclaimed poker king, shook his head.

"Nah ah." He said. "We don't play with the Joker."

"Joker's in or I don't _play _at all." The boy was fast to reply, keeping his eyes fixed on the man.

Rory stared back, his lip twitching in annoyance.

"How 'bout we do this the way I say." He suddenly pulled an automatic from his coat, pointing it straight at the boy's head.

The boy grinned.

"But then you'll never know, will you?" He said smoothly, his gaze never faltering.

Rory looked at him askance.

'Crazy bastard.', he thought.

If he didn't want so badly to beat the little shit who everyone had been talking about lately, he would have told him 'fuck you' and blown his head off.

But he _did _want to beat him badly.

And so he pocketed the weapon.

"Fine. Joker's in. It won't matter in the end."

The boy just smiled.

/

He won. And Rory, predictably, had been mad. And then, also predictably, he'd accused him of cheating.

"You little fuck!" He screamed. "You goddamn cheat!"

The boy shook his head.

"I didn't cheat." He said, gathering the money towards himself.

Suddenly, the man reached forward, snatching his wrist and holding it hard.

"You _did_." He seethed. "No one's ever beat me."

"_Well_…" The boy answered calmly. "Someone just, uh, _did_."

The hold on his wrist tightened.

"You ain't takin' that money." Rory hissed.

The boy could feel the man's muscles tense and saw in his face he was about to go for his gun.

He wouldn't let him.

He threw an elbow, raking it across Rory's temple, dropping him instantly. He didn't waste any time, flipping the wooden table over and ducking down behind it before any of the other idiots could pull their own weapons.

He didn't have a great deal of time, he knew. But the places exit was just a few feet behind him and he was sure he could make it.

But he'd have to be fast.

This table wasn't going to stop bullets.

But it would be a good distraction.

With that thought in mind, he lifted the thing up, only moments after having ducked behind it, and tossed it towards the group of men still fumbling with their guns.

There was a loud explosion as one of them shot at the thing and wood went flying everywhere.

By then he'd already started for the door.

He almost made it out unscathed, if one didn't count the bullet which clipped his shoulder.

Most people would have gone down from that, he figured, but he just kept moving, bursting through the door and running down the alley where this particular hole had been located. He turned a corner and disappeared in to a thong of people before any of the men could follow.

Another reason he liked cities this size. So easy to vanish in to.

**Sorry for such a short chapter guys. The next one will be longer, I promise. We'll get in to a little more back story for the Joker here, and maybe even some for the Scarecrow. Let me know what you think and, as always, thanks to all my readers and reviewers!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17:**

The first time he killed someone had been roughly a year following the confrontation with Riley and his little gang. At least, that was the first time the Joker _remembered _killing someone. He'd been good at it. Efficient. Which made him think he must have done it several times before.

Interestingly enough, it had been Riley he'd offed, and it had been pure coincidence how he'd run in to the man.

It had been on the subway, late, in the early morning hours. He'd been on there himself, no one else in the car. Until it had made its stop, and doors slid open to reveal the card shark. The Joker had seen him immediately, always taking note of what was happening around him, but Riley hadn't seen the Joker until getting in. When he finally did take note, first a look of surprise past over his features, and that quickly slid in to anger.

"I can't fuckin' believe it!" He'd snarled.

One thing which the Joker knew separated him from most was hesitation. He had none. Never had, for as long as he knew. That was usually the difference between life and death. Hesitation. People didn't realize how it was their apprehension which often times led to them being killed. And Riley learned it that night. By the time he'd started to reach for his weapon, the Joker was already upon him. Of course, no one knew to call him that yet, not even himself. He was just "that kid" to the man who stumbled backward, his hand reaching clumsily in to his coat pocket, trying to pull a pistol.

The Joker remembered latching to Riley's arm with one hand, burying his other fist in to the man's hair and slamming him back against the doors which had only just closed.

He was still only a boy then, and Riley was stronger then him. But what he lacked in strength, he more then made up for in tenacity. Riley had panicked, being pressed up against the doors like that, giving up on trying to reach his gun and instead grabbing hold of the Joker's shirt and pushing him back.

The two of them lost their footing and went tumbling to the floor, Riley on top, his arm and hair still being held. So he reared his fist back and starting laying it in to the Joker's face, over and over, trying to make him let go. But the Joker smiled, remembering how he wouldn't, no matter what. Like some crazed pit bull.

And then he remembered somehow getting his leg pulled up underneath the belly of the man on top, to the point his knee was resting against his own chest, and he managed to get the ball of his foot planted firmly against Riley's solar plexus. He'd kicked up, as hard as he could, and Riley's grip on his shirt had loosened, a moment later and he'd fallen to the side, writhing in pain.

The Joker hadn't wasted any time, rolling to his knees and standing, making his way to the rolling form on the ground.

He'd kicked him over, on to his back, straddling him and wrapping his hands round his throat.

Riley had struggled intensely, trying to throw him off, even trying the same trick of kicking him in the stomach. But it hadn't worked on him, and the Joker remembered just bearing down, harder and harder, a kind of fascination filling his mind as he watched Riley's eyes begin to bulge and his face strain, the veins in his forehead sticking out as gradually his thrashing became less dramatic, more sluggish. Within a minute and a half, he was dead.

It was odd, the way the life just… went out of him like that. How he was there a moment before, and then he simply ceased to be. The Joker remembered thinking it was beautiful, in a way, beautiful in its finality, its inevitability, in its _sincerity_.

Riley had been a liar, a hypocrite and a cheat. The very picture of dishonest. But in those moments, when he struggled in vain to save himself, as the life was being squeezed from his very lungs, there'd been nothing but the truth in his face, in his eyes. Nothing but the reality of who and what he was. No facades, no masks. Just him, plain and simple and exposed.

The Joker had liked that. He'd liked the truth of it. The realness of it.

There'd been nothing which disgusted him like people's falsity. And seeing it stripped away, seeing how their desperation became so much, that any pretense, any concern with appearances, was abandoned, it captured his imagination in a way.

He'd skipped town after that, moving on to Gotham, even more sprawling and crowded and crime ridden then New York had been.

And it was there he'd begun to make moves on the underground element.

It was fun, trouncing people at cards, but it had grown stale, boring, and he'd found himself with that familiar tugging towards something more intense, more complex and involved.

He was good at listening, and at getting himself involved in affairs others would claim he had no right to.

And that was exactly what he did, when by way of hanging around and making himself available as a delivery boy, he became privy to a rivalry between two of the lower tier mob bosses in town.

Alonzo Bertanellie and Nicholas Gillipsie.

They'd been feuding for the last, several months, and blood had been shed on both sides as they each tried to take over the others territory.

The Joker recalled seeing an opportunity for some fun in that, and so he'd gone about setting the wheels in motion.

He'd written each of the men a letter, in nearly illegible handwriting. That part hadn't been calculated. His penmanship and spelling had left much to be desired, and he thought maybe he'd dropped out of school at a very young age, or more likely still, he'd never gone. His reading level was rudimentary at best back then. Though eventually he'd just taught himself, and it wasn't long until he could understand every kind of text he came upon, literature, fiction, scientific study, philosophy, on and on. He'd even taught himself a few different languages along the way. What he'd found particularly useful were books on chemistry and how to make explosives and poisons. In a years time, he'd soaked up as much knowledge in varying fields as most people gathered in ten years of mandate education.

But at the time, when he'd written the letters, it looked as though maybe a child of 4 or 5 had authored them. That didn't stop him from sending them though.

In the letters, he offered both men his services, as an assassin, to kill the other guy. He told them, if they were interested, they could meet him on the Upper East Side docks, by the fish packing warehouse. He'd given them a date and a time even.

Whoever took him up first, they'd win his services. That had been the idea. If they both showed, well, he'd just have to do them both right then and there, and whoever else they brought along.

He'd picked up a gun at that point, buying it from a man he'd met while dropping off a package, and he felt confident he could take on a whole group of low level mobsters at that point.

But neither of them had shown, even though he'd given them an hour past the time he'd specified.

He'd thought that was rude, and on principle alone, he'd concluded to simply kill them both.

Which he had.

Though the task hadn't been what one might call _easy_.

He'd walked straight in to each of their operating basis, and he concluded it must have been the unexpected nature of such an act (who after all would be crazy enough to walk single handedly and without any kind of plan in to a mafia don's hideaway?) which allowed him to walk away from each scene with his own life still in tact. The looks of shock on the faces of their hired men had brought a face-splitting grin to his own, and he'd summarily shot all of them before anyone had even a chance to pull their own weapons.

Of course, he'd spoken with both Bertanellie and Gillipsie before offing them, making clear his disappointment at their rudeness. He told them he couldn't understand why they'd been so quick to dismiss him and his offer.

Both had been rather indignant, he remembered, spewing all manner of profanity his way. He'd simply shrugged.

"See?" He'd said to Bertanellie. "That's what I'm talking about. Why the hostility? It could all have been, uh, _avoided_ if you'd just been a little mooore… _open _to emerging possibilitesss."

He'd given Gillipsie a similar dialog before shooting them both in the head.

He remembered the anticipation of again seeing that same sincerity in their eyes as he'd seen in Riley's before he'd died. But he found himself let down. Killing them with a gun had been too quick for them to really register just what was happening. They were gone before they had any kind of chance to react.

That took the appeal out of killing. At that point, it became nothing more then a means to an end, not a source of enjoyment.

He remembered he didn't really like that very much.

Still, he supposed, it got the job done. Killing those two himself had been a fast way of making his presence known in Gotham's underground circles.

Though it wouldn't be for another few years that they began to _feel_ his presence.

When he finally found how best to display to them exactly what he was about.

/

"Why the Joker? What made you choose that particular persona?" Bartholomew reclined back in his seat, watching his patient intently.

The Joker had seemed entirely distracted since the session began, barely acknowledging the doctor, barely even making eye contact. He kept staring down at his cuffed hands, mumbling incoherently to himself.

Bartholomew had hoped that by asking him about his persona, he might get him to focus.

The Joker's eyes flicked up to him, his tongue sweeping out over his lips for what seemed the millionth time in the last half hour.

"… not a per_son_a…" He muttered.

"Excuse me?" The psychiatrist asked.

The Joker shook his head, his gaze sliding away.

He didn't answer.

Bartholomew sighed.

"You're upset. Okay. But you understand we didn't have a choice in the matter."

The Joker continued to look away.

"You weren't taking the pills on your own." The doctor continued to explain. "You left us no option but to administer them intravenously."

The lunatic turned his head the other way, staring, it seemed, at the wall, still saying nothing.

"We aren't going to get anywhere if you continue this belliger…"

"I wanna go back to my room." He was suddenly cut short by the madman's voice. The first time he'd really spoken to him that day.

He was becoming more agitated by the minute.

"We've still got another…" Bartholomew looked down at his watch. "25 minutes Joker. Isn't there anything you'd like to talk about?"

The Joker's leg had begun to shake, the links of his cuffs clinking metallic. Again his tongue came out to run over his lips.

For several seconds he said nothing, still keeping his eyes focused on the wall.

And then he looked back to the doctor.

"I wanna go back to my room." He repeated.

Again Bartholomew sighed.

"Very well. If that's what you want."

He pressed the call button, summoning the orderlies.

"Take him back to his room." He ordered as they entered, waving his hand dismissively.

They didn't say anything as they yanked the Joker up from his seat and pushed him out the door.

Bartholomew watched as it closed behind them, a smile creeping up on to his lips.

/

The first time they'd come in to do it, he'd made sure he wasn't the only one who got hurt. And he'd made sure of that every time since then too.

Someone, one of the orderlies he thought, must have seen him throw the pills back up, in to the toilet, and like a good little puppet, informed the _good_ doctor of it.

As soon as he saw the needle in the nurse's hand, he jumped up.

There'd been six men with her, and they'd come in on him quickly, grabbing for his arms and legs.

Still, it hadn't been easy restraining him. Several of them had sustained injuries to the face, as well as to their hands and forearms.

The Joker had twisted madly in their grip, throwing his head side to side. Whenever anyone came too close, he would slam his face forward, in to their own, and bite down where he could.

The nurse had looked absolutely petrified, nearly missing the vein on his arm as she injected the sedative.

The orderlies, by then, were angry, and they slammed him against the wall, just over his cot, letting him go to drop.

"Sweet dreams _freak_." One of them spit as they shuffled out of the cell.

He'd tried fighting the affects of the drug coursing through his veins, but it was useless, as in seconds, his limbs had started to feel weighted down, and quickly to follow, his head began to spin. Within the next five minutes, he'd fallen unconscious.

When he woke, the first thought in his mind was that they were going to die. And that Dr. Bartholomew would be given exclusive consideration.

He didn't like being sedated.

He didn't like any kind of drug induced state.

He despised the notion of shielding yourself from the reality of things, which, he knew, was the only real reason anyone ever _voluntarily_ did drugs.

He liked reality. He liked its unrelenting brutality and its unsympathetic treatment.

So no, he wasn't very happy about being forced away from it.

He knew what Bartholomew was doing, better then Bartholomew even knew himself, he was sure.

He was trying to gain control, trying to reassure himself he was _in_ control. Because he knew, deep down, that what the Joker had been telling him these last, few weeks, telling him about _himself_, was all true.

But there was that social conditioning again. Strong bastard that it was. The doctor was afraid of letting go, letting his true nature emerge, because he didn't want to lose his pathetic little station in life, the false sense of safety and power that it gave him. Didn't want to end up in the chair which right now he sat across from.

The moron.

But the Joker knew how to play this game well.

The best way to gain control of a person was to make them think they'd been in control all along. And when they realize they hadn't, when it finally dawns on them how completely they've been played, that's when they were left at their most vulnerable, their most susceptible to attack.

And that's exactly what he was doing to Dr. Bartholomew now.

It wouldn't be much longer, until he and the Scarecrow could break from this place.

/

Jonathan regarded the Joker with scrutiny, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

He could see from the glazed look in the madman's eyes and how he sat even more slouched then usual that he was sedated, though only lightly at the moment.

"They're forcing sedatives on you." He stated.

The Joker smiled at him.

"Dr. Bartholomew was very, uh, _concerned_. See, I've been losing _weight_, throwing up all his pillsss."

Jonathan smirked.

"I thought you might have looked a little thinner."

"You and the nurses." The madman laughed. "Everything comes up when you, uh, stick your fingers down your throat."

"So, intravenous. I'll bet that makes you angry." The Scarecrow said.

"_Well_, it doesn't make me _happy_." The Joker continued to chuckle.

"So, what are you going to do?" Jonathan continued. "I know from experience those things make it difficult to focus. Games of manipulation require concentration, especially against a trained doctor."

The Joker cocked his head to the side, regarding the Scarecrow with a questioning gaze.

"You aren't on any sedatives." He stated as a matter of fact.

The former psychiatrist shook his head.

"No. Only anti-psychotics for me, I'm afraid." He laughed, and it was a bitter sound. "They reserve sedatives for patients who display… outbursts of violence."

The Joker laughed loudly at that.

"And here Dr. Bartholomew was telling me it was to help me sllleep."

"Yes, well, Dr. Bartholomew does have a way with words." The Scarecrow scoffed, examining his nails.

"He's easy." The Joker said. "You'll see Scarechum. Before you know we'll, uh, be _hanging_ out in the rec. room together."

"What a _delight_ that would be." The shorter man said back, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

The Joker only grinned.

"That's what I was thinking."

God he was _infuriating_.

Jonathan wondered to himself why he'd forced these meetings at all, and then he reminded himself that, though obnoxious, the Joker was indeed a fascinating subject, and that he should be using this time to dig deeper in to the clown's mind.

He glanced at the scarred man across from him, than leaned forward slightly.

"Is there really _nothing _you fear?" He asked.

"Ah, back to the _psycho_analysis again, are we Doc?" The Joker winked at him.

Jonathan shrugged.

"You'll have to forgive me." He answered. "It's just, I find that impossible."

The Joker's eyebrows rose.

"Oh? And, uh, why's _that_?"

"Fear is a primitive emotion." The Scarecrow began to explain. "Truly, it's the basis for all subsequent actions. The prime reason for everything we, as a species, do. If there ever was an innate quality, fear is it. I find it difficult to comprehend how anyone could be devoid of it."

"But you want to control it, huh Scary?" The Joker cut in. "And why's that? So you can rid yourself of it? After all, there's nothing more _painful_ then living in feeear."

"Were you scared when that happened?" Jonathan gestured across his own mouth, quick to direct the conversation away from himself. He wasn't about to let the Joker play that game again.

The Joker's tongue darted out, swiping over his lips, as those very scars stretched with his smile.

"_So_ scared Doc."

Jonathan cocked an eyebrow.

It was frustrating to him, how difficult it was to read the man. It seemed more absurd when he considered that the Joker was hardly a man at all. More of a boy, he was so young.

"And what, precisely, did you find frightening about the experience?"

"Well…" The Joker leaned in close, lowering his face and looking up at Jonathan with his eyes. "The _pain_, for one."

"You hardly seem the type to be rattled by physical discomfort." The Scarecrow was quick to point out.

"Oh, but this pain was _brutal _Johnny. Imagine what it feels like to have your whole face split wide, and you might, uh, have an idea of what it felt like to get these." The Joker ran a finger across the gnarled up tissue along his cheeks.

Jonathan stared hard at him a moment.

And without really thinking, and certainly without knowing why, he quickly reached a hand out, brushing his fingers against the Joker's deformity.

It had been so sudden and without warning, the Joker hadn't had time to pull back. But a moment later, and he did, reflexively, looking, to the Scarecrows surprise, mildly agitated.

"Ah, ah Scary." He waved a finger. "I didn't say you could _touch_."

Jonathan hadn't been able to help the smile which crept up on his lips.

"That bothered you." He said.

The Joker waved him off, trying to appear nonchalant about the whole thing.

"No. But see, I've, uh, got a _reputation_ to uphold. People see the scars as a... _threat_, not a point of sympathyyy. If I let people go around touching them all the time, heh, well… they kind of lose their my_stique_, don't they?"

Jonathan smirked, tilting his head to the side.

Clever.

"If you say so." He paused a moment, continuing to scrutinize the Joker with his eyes. "You don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?" The Joker leaned back.

"How you got them. Who did it to you." He smiled wide. "I'll bet that makes you _really _mad. That someone got you so good and you can't even remember who it was. There's no chance for you to make them pay now, is there?"

To Jonathan's delight, and mild shock, he noted that the Joker looked slightly flustered now, maybe even a little uncomfortable.

And here he'd begun to believe that it really was impossible to get to the Joker at all.

"You'll never know, I guess." The Joker was fast to reply, an instant later the discomfort disappearing.

He was good.

Anyone else would have missed it, it came and went so fast.

But Jonathan had picked it up, and he wasn't about to let it go.

"Is that why you tell all those tall tales?" He continued. "It's a kind of catharsis for you, isn't it? A way to work out your frustrations and insecurities. If you don't know, then why should anyone else, right? You keep them guessing and they can't touch on the one weakness in your armor, because they don't know that it's a weakness at all. Very industrious of you, I have to say."

The Joker stared back at him, clear displeasure having crossed his features now, his eyes growing at once dark… _mean_.

Jonathan felt suddenly uncomfortable himself, a discomfort which slid quickly in to fear as the Joker's features seemed to change in to something beyond cruelty, a kind of indifference appearing, cold and uncaring in the worst kind of way.

The former psychiatrist felt abruptly that his life was in very real danger and he was now regretting his persistence.

He pushed back in his seat, his body tensing, ready to go rocketing from the table and throw himself against the door, hoping to God the guards would open it in time for him to get away.

The Joker started then, motioning forward, and Jonathan literally fell backwards, his chair toppling over as he scrambled to get away, rolling to his knees and launching himself at the rooms exit, throwing himself against the metal door and beginning to bang loudly on it.

The maniac was going to kill him! _Kill_ him!

His banging was so loud, his desire to flee from the place so desperate and all consuming, that it was only after some seconds that he registered the uproarious laughter behind him, and turning slowly, he saw the Joker, doubled over, on the table, laughing so hard that tears were streaming from the corners of his eyes.

"Ohh… oh, hoho J-Johnny!" He laughed. "J-Johnny, Johnny, Johnny! Y-you s-should have seen yourself! Heeheehee! You should have seen your f-face! I r-really had you goin' there, di-didn't I! Whoo, haha. You really t-thought… a-and then you thought. Hahaha!" He banged his fist against the metal surface of the table, unable to say anymore as his hysterics escalated.

Jonathan turned fully towards him then, his mouth setting in to a thin line, his eyes glowering.

_Bastard_, he thought.

The fucking _bastard_!

He'd been acting the whole time. _The whole time_. His pulling away, his discomfort, it had all been an act. A God damned _calculation_. Another of his _games_.

The Scarecrow sucked air sharply, trying to compose himself, brushing his hands agitatedly through his hair.

The door behind him suddenly opened.

"What the hell's going on in here?" One of the guards barked, Dr. Conner's standing behind him.

"Nothing." Jonathan said, his voice dripping with disgust. "False alarm."

"Did he attack you?" Dr. Conner's asked worriedly.

"No. He didn't." Jonathan said. "It's fine. Go away."

"You're sure?"

Jonathan turned, staring hard at the two men.

"I'm sure." He spit. "Now _leave _us."

With some hesitation, they finally did, and the Scarecrow turned back to the still giggling lunatic.

Slowly he walked back towards him, reaching down to lift up the chair he'd knocked over in his panic.

"D-don't be sore Scary." The Joker continued to laugh. "I-it's just p-practice, heeheehee."

"_Practice_?" Jonathan hissed, his voice clipped in anger.

"Listen…" The Joker said. "If I can, hee, if I can fool _you_, then Barthy'll be a piece of cake, hmm? Consider it… assurance by _exaaample_. He thinks he's in control now, _but_… when he finally comes to the _crushing_ realization he's _not_…? He'll be ready for the taking. That's how you really get someone. Pull the rug out from under their, uh, _feet._"

Jonathan didn't look the least bit comforted _or_ assured, crossing his arms over his chest, holding the same, smoldering look of unadulterated hatred.

"And I did all that _high_, sweetcakes." The Joker said, reaching forward and patting the smaller man's cheek.

Jonathan instantly flinched away.

"Don't touch me, you _idiot_."

The clown pouted.

"Aww, don't be like that Johnny. Here…" Suddenly he grabbed hold of the Scarecrows own hand, lifting it up and placing its palm firmly against his left scar, the more grotesque of the two. "You can feel me up all you like, big boy."

Jonathan yanked his hand back, and the Joker only laughed in response.

Why the hell had he demanded these meetings again?

God, what he wouldn't do for some of his fear toxin now.

**Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please let me know your thoughts. Reviews and feedback mean a lot to me, as always. Everyone who's bothered to read and/or review, I appreciate you more then you know! **

**Also, I just want to give a thank you to Lexicon for your awesome reviews. I would have replied, but you weren't signed in when you left them, so I couldn't. Just know, I feel the same way you do about there not being an **_**actual**_** sequel to "The Dark Knight". I know that with the way the film ended, they'd obviously planned for the next film to feature the Joker, and it just drains any excitement and anticipation for the next movie out of me, knowing that Heath Ledger is no longer with us and so unable to reprise his role. They can't top the Joker as a threat or Heath's incredible performance, so I'm really unenthused for a sequel without him or the character. It seems kind of pointless to me. Anyway, I guess this story is kind of like my tribute to Heath and the Joker, as a kind of way to help what he was able to accomplish with the Joker live on. I hope everyone else is able to get a little bit of that from this. Anyway, enough rambling. Hope you enjoyed it and the next chapter will be up hopefully soon.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18:**

Dr. Bartholomew was _really_ starting to piss him off now. The _moron_.

He hadn't even _touched_ Scary, but as soon as the _good_ doctor had heard of the incident between them, he'd thrown his weight around, convincing the board to put an end to their meetings, and of course, Johnny's own spineless therapist hadn't even attempted to intervene.

Barthy's attempts to maintain a control he never had were pathetic. The last few weeks, it was obvious he'd felt himself slipping to the Joker's manipulations, and that's when he'd ordered the sedatives be administered intravenously, in some sorry effort to gain an advantage, and now this, purposefully and boldly disrupting his fun, as though to send some kind of message as to who was in the drivers seat.

The Joker was disgusted, annoyed at the man's pomposity and stupidity.

If the doctor really wanted to play at that game, if he really wanted to test the limits of his luck, then, the Joker thought, he was perfectly willing to oblige.

He was growing bored of this place as it was, of the day in and day out routine of it all, confined to his cell 23 out of every 24 hours, only brought out to shower and to see his idiot of a psychiatrist. Then to have to endure the even more insipid orderlies as they came almost every night, trying over and over to coax some reaction from him other then amusement. Wasn't that the definition of insanity? To try the same thing, over and over, and continually expect a result somehow different from the one you always got?

If he hadn't thought society was ass-backwards in its thinking before coming to this place, he sure as hell was certain of it now.

And while he'd been looking forward to unraveling Dr. Bartholomew's mind completely, turning him in to a raving sycophant, (seeing Batman's reaction to another Arkham doctor turned rogue would have been priceless!) he'd suddenly lost his patience, wanting _now_ to show Barthy the foolery of his actions, see the look on his face when he realized just _what _he'd been dealing with. He thought he knew already, thought he understood just from watching some surveillance footage, from talking to him for an hour a day, every few days, from reading about his "crimes".

He had no idea, no clue what it _really_ was like. To have a knife held against his throat, the edge digging in to his skin, a little more pressure and the life would come pouring from his _body_.

Everyone acted so blasé, so desensitized to those types of things until they happened to _them_.

So yes, the Joker would most definitely oblige him, help make him privy to just how _brutal_ things could really get, beyond the safety of his position here, beyond the restraints and the drugs and the orderlies, keeping him from harm, from having to face the full force of his _patients_. From having to face _reality_.

But first… first he had to escape.

And since he'd decided to ditch his first plan, as much fun as it was proving to be, that meant a new one was in order.

One which would require less of an effort.

That meant targeting less mentally capable individuals then Dr. Bartholomew.

That meant the orderlies, since they were just about the dumbest group of men he thought he'd ever encountered, and that was saying a lot, since he'd dealt with his fair share of idiots.

But they were perfect, not least of all because he had more contact with them then anyone else here.

That wasn't even important, really.

He knew he could get them to do as he wanted with just a few minutes of prodding. As he had that fool of a cop back at MCU, all those months ago.

He was given his chance that very night, as he'd suspected, when they'd again come for him.

He'd already started the process, though then it had just been for fun.

Now he had a goal in mind.

Now he was actually going to _try_.

Though he wouldn't have to try _hard_. Not with these buffoons.

As usual, they shoved him from behind so that he fell to his knees, striking the tile hard. His bones were becoming so used to the sensation now he almost didn't feel anything. And, as usual, he laughed.

Teddy Bear was the one to slam his billy in to his back this time, screaming at him to shut up.

Jesus, this was getting boring.

But still, the Joker chuckled, pushing himself to his knees and falling over, on to his side so that he could look at them.

"_Which_ of you… heehee… which of you has a _girl_, hmm?" He asked, looking up at them, grinning, his yellowed teeth visible.

"Shut up!" Stevens barked, gesturing threateningly with his club.

The Joker had to force himself not to roll his eyes.

Why could these people never see how blatantly they gave themselves away?

He licked his lips, sitting up a little.

"I'm just curiousss, is all…" He continued, ignoring the warning. "Ya know… I wonder what they would, uh, _say_ if they knew you were beating up on a guy in handcuffssss…"

He saw the anger flash in their eyes, defensiveness.

Good. He wanted them to be angry. The only thing which could overcome fear.

He pushed.

"They'd be disappointed, I _think_… Ashamed their man's a cowarrrd…"

Stevens lunged in, grabbing the Joker by the collar of his shirt, pulling him up.

"Keep talkin' clown!" He spit, his face contorted in rage.

The Joker smiled coolly back.

"It'll get so bad it reaches the point she refuses to be seen in public with youuu, hmm? Humiliated her_ man_ can't even handle a drugged up mental patient without first needing to restrain him."

"Shut up!" Stevens growled, shaking the madman.

The Joker only laughed.

"If you think _that's _bad, wait'll word gets around. All the girls'll think you boys are nothing but a bunch of _fags _then, huh?"

Stevens teeth bared in rage and he threw the Joker down, standing, his hands clenching and unclenching.

The lunatic erupted with hysterics.

"A-and… heeheehee… you b-boys just might end up like that… i-if… heehee… if you get desperate enough… hahahaha… when you… when you run out of o-options, hahaha!"

"Shut the _fuck_ UP!" Stevens laid in to his stomach with a swift kick.

The Joker choked out, but the sound slid quickly in to more laughter as he curled in on himself.

"I'll fuckin' kill you!" The orderly shouted. "I'll _kill_ you!"

The Joker shook with mirth.

"E-easy to k-kill a guy when he can't lift a hand to de-defend himself, heeheehee. D-doesn't make you a _man_ Steve-O, whoohaha!"

"You think I can't handle you with them cuffs off freak?" Stevens roared. "I ain't scared of you!"

The Joker's head shook, giggling madly.

"O-oh no!" He managed. "Of c-course not. And you prove it e-every night, don't you? Big, t-tough guy that you are!"

The orderly's whole face felt on fire, a mix of anger and embarrassment taking him.

"I… I'll prove it right now!" He spit.

The Joker was practically rolling with laughter now.

"S-suuure you willl, heeheehee!"

Stevens body tensed hard and he threw his club down.

"Fuck this!" He shouted, stepping in close to the Joker, bending down and pushing him over, on to his stomach.

The Joker continued to chuckle.

"H-hey man…" Brandon started, watching as Stevens fingered through the keys on his belt loop, looking for the right one. "You sure this is a good idea?"

"Ohh, hear that Steve-O?" The Joker laughed. "The new guy over there thinks you might get _hurt_. Maybe you should listen to him Steve-O. It's okay to be afraaaid."

"Shut it!" Stevens snapped, shoving the madman's shoulder.

"And you!" He looked to Brandon. "You shut it to! You think we can't handle this pussy bitch?"

"I… I didn't say that." Brandon said. "It's just…"

"Quiet!" Russell cut him short, before turning towards Stevens. "Do it man! Fuck this clown!"

Stevens didn't need to be encouraged further as he found the key he was looking for, pulling the ring forward and beginning to undo the cuffs.

All the Joker had needed was one hand free, that's all he needed.

In an instant, he'd spun around and reached forward, burying his hands in the orderly's hair, pulling his head down and slamming it hard in to the floor.

Stevens reeled, unable to react as the Joker kept hold of his hair, rising to his feet, pulling him with him.

Russell, Brandon and Teddy bear immediately fell back, their eyes growing wide with fear, shocked by the sudden loss of control

The Joker already had them beat.

Without warning, he shoved the half-conscious orderly at them, stepping forward as he did so.

Stevens crashed in to the now panicked men, pushing them back further and the Joker took the opportunity to take up the man's earlier discarded billy.

He smiled, thwaping the club against his palm.

"Well boysss…" He said. "Let's have a little _fun_, hmm?"

The three didn't move, frozen in place, their mouths hanging open.

"Oh, what's the _matter_?" The lunatic asked. "You aren't _scared_, are you? Four against one?" His eyes moved down to Stevens, who struggled on the floor, rolling about, clearly out of it. "Well, _three_ against one. _Still_, the odds are in your, uh, _favor_, hmm?"

The orderlies didn't respond, keeping their eyes on him.

They looked absolutely petrified.

The Joker smirked, stepping forward, and that's when their hands tightened around their nightsticks, pulling them free.

"_Now _we're talkin'." The madman said, his smirk turning to a grin.

In an instant, he'd covered the distance between them, engaging them without hesitation.

Teddy bear was the first to swing at him, and the Joker easily ducked under the attack, coming up and raking the end of the nightstick across the orderly's jaw, knocking him backwards as he turned in to another swing, smashing the clubs edge in to Russell's nose.

Blood exploded from the man's face as he crumpled, and the Joker took the opportunity to slam the billy down across the back of Stevens neck, flattening him on the floor, ensuring he would stay down.

Brandon backed away, the color having drained from his face, his hands trembling.

"Come here new guy." The Joker leered, stepping fast towards him.

Brandon swung out desperately, blindly, and the lunatic easily avoided the shot, stepping to the side before bringing his club up in an arc, slamming it against the orderly's knees, dropping him quickly.

He heard movement behind him then, turning in time to see Teddy bear lunging, billy raised, and bringing it down. He put his arm up, catching the shot along it.

A shock of pain went shooting up, through his shoulder, but he hardly noticed at all as he stepped to the man, taking the baton in both hands and slamming it against the orderly's chest, pushing him away.

"Very gooood Teddy bear!" The Joker laughed, following him as he stumbled back. He didn't give the orderly time to recover his balance, jabbing the plastic stick hard and swift in to the bridge of his nose, crushing it instantly, and down Teddy bear went.

Now it was just a matter of finishing the job, and the madman found himself frowning, displeased with how easy it had been. He'd hoped, with as much bravado as they'd shown, they'd have put up more of a fight, even though he'd known, deep down, they wouldn't.

He shrugged.

That's what he got for expecting more from people.

He told himself to remember not to do that any more.

And then he turned towards Stevens, trying without success to push himself to his hands and knees, a low moan escaping his lips.

"Say goodnight Steve-O." He said, raising the billy up. "It's been good, uh, _knowing_ you. I'll be sure to stop by and give my regards to whoever it is you _care_ about. Don't ever say I wasn't a thoughtful guy, huh?"

And then he swung down, smashing the club against the back of Stevens skull as hard as he could, and then again, this time splitting it wide, like a coconut.

Blood splattered upwards, sprinkling his face and shirt, and he turned then to Brandon, bringing the billy across his face, one, two, three times, until he'd crushed it completely and the man no longer moved.

Russell was next, and the Joker gave him more of the same, smashing his skull open with three, hard whacks, and finally moving to Teddy bear, caving his head in with the same kind of force.

By the end of it, the Joker was covered in blood, the four orderlies lifeless as they lay, unmoving, on the floor.

He looked around at them, taking in their mangled appearances. And then he moved to Stevens side, bending down and unclipping the key ring from his belt.

"Thanks Steve-O. This'll help." He said, taking a moment to find the right key, undoing the one remaining cuff on his wrist and letting the manacles fall to the floor.

And then he stepped towards the shower rooms exit, out in to the hallway.

Time to find the Scarecrow.

/

**So, I know it's another short chapter guys. I'm sorry about that. But hopefully you still enjoyed it. **

**I think the Joker's gotten sick of Arkham, huh? And who can blame him. But of course, a loose Joker is a fun Joker. **

**We'll see next chapter if he gets out with Johnny or not, haha. **

**As always, reviews are welcome!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19:**

Jonathan Crane looked innocent when he slept, all the smugness and high self-regard drained from his features. It would be _easier _for most to see how very handsome he was when sleeping, when they weren't put off by his superior attitude.

The Joker had noticed his good looks the moment he first saw him though.

But then, the Joker was good at seeing everything, every aspect of a person, no matter how many layers there were to get through.

He cleared his throat, reaching out and poking the Scarecrow on the shoulder.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacyyy…" He said, not bothering to lower his voice.

Jonathan shifted over on to his side, mumbling incoherently.

The Joker rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"Come on Scary." He began again, this time giving the smaller man a shove. "Get up. It's time to, uh, _go_."

Once more Jonathan shifted, this time on to his back, his arm coming up and falling across his eyes.

"…Go away." He mumbled, clearly out of it.

"Can't do that Scary. You've gotta help me find my clothesss."

Finally the Scarecrow began to gain some semblance of cognizance, his lids beginning to flutter open.

It took him a moment, staring bleary-eyed at the Joker. A moment later and his eyes shot wide, inadvertently shooting up and pushing back, against the wall.

He stared at the Joker as though he weren't real, his breathing immediately labored, and the Joker smirked.

"Relax Johnny." He said. "I promise, you haven't gotten _doused_ by your own, uh, _toxin _or whatever you call it. You aren't hallucinatinggg."

"How… h-how did you…?" Jonathan struggled to find his voice, still not certain of what he was seeing.

"Get in here?" The Joker finished his question for him. He smiled, holding up the ring of keys and jangling them. "That's an easy one Scary."

"But how did you…" Jonathan still had an expression of disbelief. "How did you get _out _of your cell? How did you get your… your hands on the _keys_?"

The Joker snickered.

"Oh, my, uh, _best buds_ took care of all that. I just provided the _encouragement_."

It was only then the Scarecrow noticed the blood splattered all across the Joker's face and clothes. He hadn't even realized it before, being too consumed by the Joker's presence in his cell at all.

Finally he forced his expression to calm, his body to relax as he resumed his usual air of nonchalance.

"… What did you do?"

The Joker broke in to full out laughter.

"Oh, I think you _know_." He managed, glancing towards a corner of the room.

Jonathan's eyes followed, and there he saw a bloodied nightstick, lying against the wall.

"But what _weapon_ had he?" He was drawn back to the Joker, putting on some sophisticated sounding, British accent.

"More shame to us all…" The madman went on, again changing his voice, this time to a pathetic, whimpering tone. "The jawbone of an ass!"

And suddenly he fell in to hysterics, bending at the waist, slapping his knee.

Jonathan stared at him, bemused, and more then a little put off.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" He breathed, keeping his eyes trained forward.

"Nothing a little _fresh air_ won't fix." The Joker gasped, trying to right himself.

Still the Scarecrow regarded him with skepticism.

"What? You've never seen _Sampson and Delilah_?" The Joker finally began to calm. "It's a _classic_."

When Jonathan still remained mute, the Joker sighed, rolling his eyes up.

"Look Scary, as, uh, _stimulating_ as this conversation isss… if you ever wanna see the _sky _again, _now's_ the time to go."

"Go?" The Scarecrow questioned, raising his eyebrows.

"Uh, _yeah_." The Joker looked away, then back again. "So, what do ya say?"

"You must be crazy." Jonathan said. "The only thing we'll get trying to escape is a severe beating at the hands of the guards."

The Joker frowned at him.

He was going to let that pass, if only because they were in an insane asylum, and really, it made a good joke.

"… Uh, _look_ Spooky, we've got a _win_dow here. You either can _come_ with me, or you can _stay_. It's up to you. I know the thought of another hour in the rec. room isss… _almost _irresistible."

Jonathan's eyes flashed in agitation.

"_Condescending sonofa_…" He thought, but somehow refrained from speaking it.

"What happened to your _other _plain?" He hissed.

The Joker shrugged.

"… Got sick of waiting. So are you in?"

"_No_, I most certainly am _not_." Jonathan spit. "You think the guards aren't _right now_ on their way to this cell?"

"Umm, no." The Joker said, as though it should be obvious. "But they _will _be eventually, if we don't get a, uh, _move on_."

"And what makes you so _sure_?" The Scarecrow wanted to know.

"I avoided the cameras."

"You _what_?"

"The cameras." The Joker repeated. "I, uh, _avoided_ them."

"… Well doesn't that just _instill_ confidence?" Jonathan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away.

The Joker stared at him a moment, his face expressionless, and then a smile began to spread across his lips.

"Suit yourself then Johnny." He began, turning back towards the door. "Have _fun _watching me on GCNnnn. I'm, uh, _sure _you'll find _some_ way to cope with the crushing weight of _regret_."

He took up the billy, beginning through the door.

Jonathan actually felt his heart seize up, his eyes going wide.

"Wait!" He called, immediately cursing himself for how desperate he sounded.

The Joker halted, looking back over his shoulder.

"Yesss?" He asked, his tone innocent.

Jonathan sighed, again rolling his eyes before finally pushing himself from the cot.

This was absurd, he told himself. They were going to get caught. They were going to get the shit beat out of them. He'd lose all his privileges for months to come. But… But the Joker was right. If he DIDN'T take this opportunity, he'd never be able to deal with the knowledge that he'd thrown away his one chance at freedom. He'd never be able to deal with the 'what if' of it all.

"What is your _plan_?" He asked, moving with caution towards the taller man.

The Joker smiled a lopsided grin, and the Scarecrow couldn't help to think how much he looked like a _little boy_.

"I knew you'd come around Scary." He said. "The plan is, we get _out_."

Jonathan stared at him, his eyes big, a look of disbelief in them.

"_That's_ your plan?" He snapped. "We can't just _walk_ out of here Joker! There's guards all over the damn place! Cameras! They'll catch us before we're even halfway to the lobby!"

"… We'll _worry_ about it as it comesss." The Joker said, completely unfazed as he started easily out of the cell, out in to the hall way. "In the _mean_ time…" He turned back to the Scarecrow. "You, uh, _lead _the way."

Jonathan's mouth hung open.

"You expect _me_ to get us out of here?"

"I expect _us_ to get us out of here." The Joker corrected. "You know the layout of this place better then _I_ do. It doesn't exactly help being locked up 23 hours out of the _day_. _So_… you lead, and I'll take care of any _problemssss _which may arise, hmm?"

Still the Scarecrow looked incredulous.

"You're going to get us killed." He said flatly.

The Joker smirked.

"Well, what's the fun of it if there's no _risk _involved, huh?"

"You're going to handle the guards if they come?" He asked, clearly not buying it.

The Joker nodded enthusiastically.

"And what if there's ten of them? Fifteen? Twenty?"

"Like I said, I'll take _care_ of it."

This kid was completely crazy, Jonathan thought. He really was completely _mad_. There was no way. Just no way they were getting out of here.

And yet… there was something in the Joker's voice, a kind of absurd confidence that made the Scarecrow almost believe him.

He shook his head.

He was regretting this already.

/

The first guard they encountered obviously hadn't been expecting to see them. Jonathan thought surely he must have been the first to spot him, coming around the corner as he led the two of them through the asylums curving hallways. And he opened his mouth to inform the man behind him of the approaching "problem". But apparently, he'd been wrong, because before a word could escape his lips, the Joker had roughly pushed him aside and already started with purpose towards the guard, who noticed only a moment later the encroaching, scarred madman, headed his way.

Jonathan had savored the expression of unadulterated fear which came over the guards features as the Joker descended upon him, the way he fumbled with violently shaking hands to retrieve, first, his radio, and as it became clear he would have no time for that, his nightstick. But by then it was too late, and the Joker, without any hesitation, had cracked his own billy so viciously across the man's face that his head snapped grotesquely and unnaturally to the side, almost all the way round it seemed, before he fell hard to the floor, as though he'd been dropped from a hundred stories up. The Joker gave him two more whacks across the skull, and Jonathan knew from the loud crunch and the way the guards head had seemed to collapse in that he was dead.

He thought he might be sick.

Not that he was some kind of prude, but Jonathan liked to think he was better suited to more subtle, more refined forms of attack.

The Joker was anything but subtle.

He was brutal.

That was the best word Jonathan could think to use from his considerable vocabulary in describing the young man before him.

It dawned on him that, despite all he'd seen, and he'd seen a _lot_, he'd never seen _this_. A man bludgeoned to death. And in short, efficient order. The Joker had come upon the guard with such swiftness, such undeterred commitment, that Jonathan realized the poor fool had never had a chance. The Joker hadn't allowed it.

It bothered Jonathan somewhat to realize that he'd hesitated when he saw the guard, that he'd paused, and that had been why the Joker had shoved him out of the way. The Joker, apparently, had had no such reservations, and he had killed that man with equal confidence.

The Scarecrow felt himself swallow thickly, trying to wet his suddenly dry throat.

He didn't think he'd understood his fear of the Joker until that moment, and he was loath to admit there was a fear of the man at all. But Jonathan knew, in order for him ever to conquer this particular emotion, it was imperative that he also acknowledge it. But the Joker had been somewhat of a puzzle to him, a mystery. He was so _young_, after all, not out of his 20s, Jonathan was certain, and though tall, even broad shouldered, he was _thin_, hardly what one would call _physically imposing_.

And yet, there that fear had been. Jonathan had been able to sense the danger radiating off him, the feeling that, at any moment, without provocation or warning, this _young_ man could explode in to a fit of unstoppable and deadly violence, and no words, no reasoning, no _threat_ would be able to halt him.

He hadn't ever _seen _the Joker commit an act of violence, the Scarecrow realized then. Oh, he'd heard about it on the news, seen buildings blown sky high from charges they said the Joker had set, even heard the _sound_ of the Joker as he murdered some poor bastard, but he'd never actually _seen_ the Joker do the deed, not with his own, bare hands.

Yes, Jonathan most certainly thought he better understood his fear of the young man now.

And as he thought about it, he thought he also better understood _why_. Even allowed himself to feel _justified_ in the emotion.

Though the Joker had been brutal, though he'd been fast and efficient and without restraint, there'd been no sort of _viciousness_, no anger or hatred in the action, as the Scarecrow had expected to see. And _that's_, Jonathan realized, _that's_ what was so frightening. The Joker's _apathy_ in the act.

He simply didn't _care_. He felt nothing towards that guard, and he felt nothing in killing him. It had just been something he needed to do.

Jonathan breathed out, his eyes closing against a sudden dizziness which had taken him. He willed back the taste of bile which threatened to rise up in his throat, and very real doubt swirled in his mind as to whether he should _go _with this man.

"Coming Scarechum?"

The Joker's nasal voice dragged him back to the present, and his eyes opened to find the lunatic, standing there, fresh blood splattered over his face and hands. He was smiling at him, a lopsided, boyish grin. And he looked almost innocent, Jonathan thought, had it not been for the scars which ravaged his handsome face, or the death he wore upon it.

A chill ran down the former psychiatrist's spine, and he felts his hands clench to fists.

He tried hard to compose himself, straightening his posture.

"Certainly." He said, stepping forward. "Follow me."

The Joker said nothing, doing as he was told.

Jonathan felt a mild amount of pride at his ability to conceal his increased unease.

Though that pride fell to the wayside as he realized abruptly how very uncomfortable he was, having his back to the Joker.

He increased his pace, praying they would encounter no one else.

/

There were two more guards they soon came upon after the first, and the Joker made as quick work of them. Once again, Jonathan had felt a queasiness rise up inside his gut at the gruesome and unbridled violence of it all.

But, as before, he'd kept his mouth shut, and continued to do his job of leading them through the labyrinth of the place.

For a short time after, they didn't encounter anyone else, and Jonathan began to feel the weight of the silence between them.

The Joker was in every way confusing to him.

The man was brilliant, very clearly. But also very clearly, he was disturbed. Anyone who acted with such abandonment, who threw themselves in to life-threatening situations with the kind of enthusiasm and unconcerned readiness that the Joker did, was clearly not "right" in the head. There was something _wrong_ with him, with the chemical composition in his brain. It was his apparent lack of self-preservation instincts which made Jonathan sure of this, much more so then the Joker's willingness to kill.

He appeared not to have even a semblance of the "fight or flight" impulse the Scarecrow knew to be innately born in every creature, not just people.

Oh, he ducked well enough when after swinging his club up in to the second guards jaw, a third came running from the opposite direction, wielding their own billy, thrashing out at him with it.

The Joker wasn't suicidal. Jonathan, from what he could tell, didn't even think he was a masochist. He wasn't just going to stand there and let someone wail on him with a thick, plastic stick.

But that wasn't it.

That wasn't it at all.

There was no _fear_ in the Joker's eyes.

And fear was something the Scarecrow was well acquainted with seeing in people's eyes. He _knew_ what it looked like.

It wasn't there in the Joker's.

Even when Jonathan had cried for him to "Look out!", and the Joker had turned right as the third guard was upon him, bringing the club down to smash against his head, there was no fear. No concern or worry or desperation. He'd ducked, and the guard had missed, but the Joker hadn't at all been afraid, at least, Jonathan couldn't _detect_ any fear. And, the Scarecrow realized, that was really what made him so horribly efficient, so terribly dangerous in a fight. He didn't _wait_, he didn't second guess himself or his movements. He would just _act_, and whatever happened, happened. When that third guard had missed, when his plan hadn't gone accordingly, he'd paused, he'd began to _think_, calculating what had gone wrong, wondering in dread over the consequences of his failure, and in that split second of hesitation, of doubt, the Joker had come in and caved the back of the man's skull in.

The Scarecrow was sure, had that third guard actually gotten his blow on the Joker in, the Joker would have simply gotten to his feet and attacked the man with the same vigor and intensity as he'd been doing with the others. There was no doubt in his mind. The Joker wouldn't have thought about how he messed up, thought about what would happen to him now that he had, thought about what was _coming_. He would simply have gotten up and proceeded as he had been.

Jonathan began to think he would like very much to observe the Joker in a more open environment, to see his interactions with people more hardened then these guards, people closer to the Joker's own ilk.

And he was beginning to think he could learn a great deal about fear from this young man, and perhaps, at least for a time, his toxin wouldn't even be needed.

Though the thought of using his toxin on the Joker stirred up a kind of excitement in Jonathan that he hadn't felt in a long while.

How would he react? He wondered. Would he finally show fear? Would he scream? And if nothing so overt, would his eyes at least dilate, would his breathing become more labored, his heart rate quicken? There were so many questions he wanted to find the answers to.

Yes, he thought, even if not right away, eventually, he _would _use his toxin on the Joker, and then he'd find out once and for all if the lunatic really was without fear, or if he was just supremely gifted in covering it up.

It would be a betrayal of the young man, though that didn't at all concern Jonathan. He wasn't exactly one to let questions of morality impede on his studies.

But it did get him to thinking, to wondering over another aspect of the Joker which left him puzzled, the silence now drawing his attention to it.

The Joker seemed to _trust_ him.

But it seemed so completely contradictory.

Someone as intelligent as the Joker was, Jonathan was sure, would know better then to trust _anyone_.

Yet he was allowing himself to be led blindly, without question, and by another mental patient, though Jonathan knew he had been _wrongly_ labeled. Still, there the label was. For all the Joker knew, Jonathan could have been leading him in to the hands of a hundred guards. Certainly, the Joker had no _reason_ to trust him. Especially when he'd been harassing and embarrassing the former psychiatrist as he had those past, few weeks, and it was entirely plausible the Scarecrow would want some type of revenge.

What better revenge then to lead the Joker in to what would likely be the worst beating of his life?

The Joker must have _realized_ this.

Yet he said nothing, he didn't speak, didn't ask the Scarecrow where they were going, even though they'd been walking for some minutes now.

He in some ways was as a child, Jonathan thought. Carefree as a child, unburdened, untroubled.

In any event, Jonathan _wasn't_ leading them astray. He was heading towards the asylum's Western exit, clear on the other side of the building, near its back, and the Joker could just consider himself lucky in his decision to let himself be guided.

Though maybe not, Jonathan thought, as they rounded the corner and were met, a dozen feet back, with the faces of ten guards.

He didn't get the chance to say a word before the Joker had shoved him aside, heading without pause straight for the men.

**Oh, that Joker's a crazy bastard! Hopefully I'm beginning to flesh Jonathan out a bit more, too. In coming chapters we'll get a little more background on him, I think, and maybe the Joker's perception of **_**him**_**. Let me know what you guys think, and as always, thank you to all my readers and reviewers. I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate it!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20:**

The Joker had finally gone down from a blow to the back of his skull, and that was only after he'd dropped three of the men himself, and taken multiple whacks to the body.

Jonathan had felt a painful sinking of the heart upon seeing the young man dropped, though certainly, it wasn't in any kind of sympathy for the lunatic, but in woe for himself, in seeing his chance at freedom ripped away, the many months ahead made nearly intolerable by the guaranteed loss of privileges, and the physical beating he was sure was very soon to befall him.

But the depression would be short lived, replaced, first, by astonishment, and then analytical observation as his suspicion from before, concerning that third guard they'd encountered, moved from likely probability to proven fact.

Yes, the Joker had gone down, and hard, from what Jonathan could see, but the blow had done nothing outside that to slow him down.

The guards were terrified. Startled and frozen by the Joker's heedless approach towards them, and again, it was that fear, that hesitation, which the Joker had taken advantage of, which had allowed him to land the first blows.

The Scarecrow could see it in their eyes, the horror of facing something they didn't understand, something wholly unfamiliar and un-relatable, something beyond their own abilities, beyond their willingness. The Joker's behavior was what men called _madness_. Not that silly legal definition of the word, but something so far past the bounds of recognized normality that it could only be called insane.

They each had paused, wondering if they should engage the scarred man at all, doubting the prudence of it, the worth of their jobs when weighed against the risk of going up against what they now faced.

They had wanted to _run_.

But the Joker hadn't given them that chance, _forcing_ them in to contact.

And though Jonathan had seen relief in their eyes when they'd finally gotten the Joker to the ground, thinking perhaps they'd secured the upper hand, the relief was quickly extinguished as the lunatic didn't even bother getting to his feet before he'd resumed his own attack.

He'd somehow managed to keep hold of his nightstick as he'd gone down, and it was with that stick now he went after the ankles of the man standing nearest to him, smashing the butt of it with sickening force in to the guards right Achilles tendon. And so quickly had he done this, so immediately and without wait, that Jonathan thought for a moment, irrationally he knew, that the Joker had _planned_ to be put down, so that he would have better access to that particular weak point.

The guard, of course, had crumpled on the spot, and before he'd even hit the ground, the Joker had lunged forward, shoving his hand up between another of the men's legs, latching down tight on his scrotum.

The scream which had tore from the guards throat had made the Scarecrow actually flinch, and he didn't need to keep looking to know the Joker was pulling with the intent to _tear_.

But he kept looking, because it was too extraordinary not to.

The Joker had gotten to his feet, still holding to the unfortunate guards nether regions, and promptly taken a blow to his back. And then another to his shoulder. And another still to his right arm. _Hard_ blows. But he hadn't gone down, and for the split second it took Jonathan to get over wondering _how_ that was possible, the madman had turned, raking his club across one man's face, and then another, downing them both like sacks of bricks.

In that time, Jonathan had gone from marveling over the Joker's ability to withstand punishment, punishment anyone else would have folded up from like an accordion, to wondering in morbid fascination over what was to become of the three guards who remained standing. And then to realizing, with restrained excitement, that it was possible now they would actually get _past_ this.

That possibility turned to probability as the Joker threw his billy aside and buried his now free fingers in to the hair of one of the men, pushing his head down while bringing his knee up, impacting the bony cap against the guards face. Blood exploded from it seemed everywhere, and when the lunatic released his grip, the man slumped, unconscious to the floor, his nose clearly broken.

The two still left looked just about ready to piss themselves then, and the Scarecrow couldn't repress the smile which slid across his lips at their pure, unhidden fear.

They backed away, their hands shaking as they held tightly to their sticks.

The Joker actually paused then, regarding them, and Jonathan saw him smirk before stretching his hands over his head, audibly popping his shoulders and back.

"Errrrrh!" He groaned, as if relieving himself of cramps. "Nothing like a good, uh, _workout_, huh boysss?" He asked, looking back at them, grinning.

If it was possible, the guard's eyes went wider, and they stepped back.

The man who's Achilles tendon the Joker had practically crushed moaned on the floor, beginning to try and push himself up, and the lunatic glanced down at him, an expression of boredom crossing his face.

Abruptly he reared his foot back, kicking hard in to the guard's temple, and any effort on the man's part ceased as he collapsed down, unconscious.

The Joker glanced around himself, seeing all the others, either out cold or writhing on the ground, clearly not able to move beyond that, and so he turned his attention back to the other two, leering.

"So, whatcha' _waiting_ for, hmm?" He asked, holding his hands out at his sides. "I'm, uh, un_armed_ and everything."

The guards glanced at him, and then at each other for only a moment before looking back.

Jonathan by now had leaned against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest, a smile he didn't at all care to repress on his lips and amusement in his eyes.

The gratuity of the violence was still unsettling, but to see these ignorant and moronic sacks of flesh, the same buffoons who had treated _him _as less, trembling in fear for once… in the Scarecrows mind, it was worth every bit.

The Joker just stood there, hunched forward like he always was, grinning at them, his hands still spread.

His brows raised, his head ducking down as he looked up at them from under his lashes.

"Well…?" He questioned. "Free _shots_ here boysss…"

But they just stood there, too terrified to move, either to fight or run, and the Joker sighed, his hands finally falling, his eyes rolling up.

"Have to do everything yourself…" He mumbled, barely intelligible.

And then he stepped to them, his posture in every way threatening, and the two guards seemed to spasm, flailing in an attempt to keep the distance.

But again, the Joker didn't allow it, reaching out and curling the fingers of one hand in the shirt of the larger man's uniform, his other coming up and burying itself in his hair.

The man screamed, actually _screamed_ as he was shoved with force back against the wall, and the lunatic jerked his head forward before slamming it back, an audible crack sounding as the guards head impacted.

The other guard had begun to shake violently, staring in horror at the display for many, long seconds, before finally he seemed to snap from it and came barreling in on the Joker, club raised. And so consumed was the Joker in his task of banging the other guards head against the wall, he didn't notice. And so he was hit, along the top of his left shoulder.

Jonathan had stood straight, his mouth opening to call out, to warn the Joker, but it had all happened too quickly, and his felt himself frown as he watched the plastic stick collide hard against the madman, and a kind of relief he was quick to ignore when the Joker, with his uncanny resilience, again stayed standing.

"_That must have hurt_…" The Scarecrow thought, watching in undying amazement as the Joker pulled the guard from the wall and swung him around, in to the other man.

The first guard by then was out, and the second stumbled from the collision of unsupported weight falling against him, which was all the Joker had needed.

He charged in, crashing in to the man, bringing them both to the floor.

The relentlessness with which the Joker reigned down punches was astonishing, as he hit the guard over and over, until his face was nothing more then a bloody mask and he lay unmoving, long since rendered unconscious.

Jonathan could see the Joker's own knuckles had split open and were bleeding, and he knew his hands must have hurt, but he didn't seem to notice or care, only stared down at the limp guard, as if studying the man, his expression one of interest.

And then, abruptly, he stood, looking over at the former psychiatrist with expectancy.

"Your move Scarecrow."

Jonathan seemed to snap from some kind of trance, his eyes lifting to the Joker's face, blinking.

And then he started, moving forward.

"Right." He said. "This way."

He was careful as he made his way through the numerous, fallen bodies, splayed across the hallway floor. A few of them still convulsed, if only slightly, while the others were completely still, but Jonathan didn't want to touch any of them, or have them touch him. His eyes fixed on their forms as he picked his way across, and he heard the Joker shuffling behind.

They were almost to the end of it, very close to the asylum's back entrance now.

He was actually surprised. Being honest with himself, he would never have thought they'd make it this far. But then, he hadn't expected the Joker to be so… un-intimidated either.

The fact however was, there was no more time to waste.

The guards in Arkham didn't _carry_ guns on them, this being a mental facility, not a prison. But they had guns _available_ to them, for potential situations like this one, and they'd long since been spotted on the security feeds.

The Scarecrow knew they'd well be on their way to retrieving those weapons by now. If they didn't move _fast_, they were going to get caught in a hellish crossfire, and as formidable as the Joker was proving to be, Jonathan knew even _he_ couldn't stand up to bullets.

"We have to move more quickly." He said, beginning to walk faster. "They'll be coming with guns soon."

"Oh, I can't _wait_." He heard the Joker say behind him.

"I'm serious." Jonathan snapped, continuing forward. "Hurry up!"

"Oooo… _pushy_, are we?" The Joker chuckled. "I can tell you must have been, uh, _popular_ among your _co_workers."

Jonathan felt a shot of anger.

"You'll _forgive_ me if I don't want to get _killed_ just because you're some kind of _adrenaline junkie_!" He spit.

The Joker only continued to laugh.

"Oh, ho, ho… hit a _nerve_ Johnny?" He mocked. "Just trying to lighten the _mood_. You seemed a little _nervousss_."

The Scarecrow sucked air sharply, telling himself he had to calm down, that now was no time to pick a fight with the lunatic.

"Let's just go." He repeated. "We're almost there."

The Joker shrugged, following.

"Oh, and by the wayyy… _Dr_. Crane… You're diagnosis is _off_. I'm not an adrenaline junkie."

"Oh?" Jonathan said, not bothering to turn and look at him. "Then what would you call yourself?"

"I wouldn't call myself anything." The Joker answered. "Just someone who accepts things the way they _are_. Adrenaline junkies… they, uh, _pretend_ they like it dangerous, but they're just as afraid to die as everyone else. They take _precautions_, with their harnesses and parachutes and… whatever _else_ they thinks gonna keep them _alive_."

Jonathan thought on this a moment, and being objective, he realized the Joker was right. He wouldn't classify him an adrenaline junkie. Not at all. Because what he said was true. Those sorts of people enjoyed the _illusion_ of danger, placing themselves in situations where there was a perceived risk, but always making certain there was something to pull them back from the edge, to _save _them, as it were. They weren't ready, nor _willing_ to die, they simply thought it fun to simulate a feeling of total abandonment.

From what he'd thus far observed of the Joker, there were no such bounds, no limits. He didn't _pretend_ to give himself up to circumstance, he simply _did_.

An adrenaline junkie would scream if he fell from an airplane without a parachute.

The Joker would laugh.

That was the difference.

Although, what exactly that difference _was_, and what caused it, the Scarecrow wasn't entirely sure. But he was determined to find out.

Those others only _acted_ the part of being fearless.

And one thing Jonathan felt sure of now was that the Joker wasn't _acting_. He wasn't faking it, whatever _it_ was. If that was fearlessness or something else, that was the thing the former psychiatrist had yet to determine.

Whatever it was, it allowed the Joker to engage without hesitation in situations which would send most anyone else running and screaming.

And anyway, it would be foolish to label someone like the Joker with so simple and limiting a term.

He was far more complex then that. Far more _interesting_.

But now wasn't the time to ponder it. Now wasn't the time to do anything but focus on getting _out_.

"Come on." He said, settling on finding the answers to his questions later.

He heard the Joker giggle and couldn't help rolling his eyes.

"It's this way." He said, forcing himself not to show any outward signs of his annoyance. "Just past this corridor and to the left." He finished, turning in to another hallway, picking up his pace.

He should be running, he thought. But really, what difference would it make? They were so close now, if they were going to make it, they were going to make it. If not, then it wouldn't matter if they were world class sprinters, because you couldn't outrun bullets.

Still, the urge was strong when they reached the end of the hall and to their left he saw the large, brown door, the glowing red exit sign situated over its top.

It was right as he'd taken his first step in its direction that the deafening blare of the asylums alarm exploded in his ears, and at that point, logic be damned, he was going to _run_.

"GO!" He shouted over the horrible, skull splitting sound, lurching forward.

But for whatever reason, his legs felt like rubber beneath him, and it was like some kind of ridiculous horror film cliché running through his mind, how the girl being chased by the killer could never seem to stay on her damned feet.

The irony of the situation didn't escape him.

For indeed there was a killer behind him, and he himself had attempted such.

But they weren't the pursuers now, they were the pursued.

Things only became more backwards then, as he felt himself stumble, and he was sure now he was going to fall. He imagined the Joker stampeding over his splayed form on his way to the exit, leaving him to the wolves, as it were. And objectively, he couldn't really blame the madman, for he couldn't claim he would act otherwise. Sure enough, he felt the rush drop down through his stomach as he lost his footing completely and began the journey down, something which, in reality, would last only a split second, but in that moment, seemed to be taking forever.

But that's when things didn't go according to assumption, as he felt the most painful, almost bone crushing pressure clamp down around his wrist, and he was yanked back up, then jerked suddenly forward.

As his eyes rose, he was met with the sight of the Joker, his long, blonde hair swinging wildly as he ran, a kind of disjointed, almost sectioned movement, like some kind of demented marionette. Yet he was running very _quickly_, the Scarecrow noted, the speed seeming at odds with how the motion appeared.

It was only as the exit seemed suddenly to rush up on him that Jonathan realized the pain in his wrist was being caused by the fact the Joker had taken hold of him, and that now he was being dragged, rather effortlessly it appeared, behind.

His legs struggled to stay solid, to keep pace.

It seemed surreal, like a moving picture, as he watched the Joker slam himself against the doors handle, pushing it in, causing the thing to fly open.

And then he was being dragged outside, and down a short staircase, nearly losing his footing once more in the process.

The rush of warm air was shocking to Jonathan, the feel of it against his skin, and the smell of it, moisture mixed with pollution. It was different then the air in Arkham, infinitely less stifling, less heavy despite it being so much hotter. They always kept the damn AC in that place on the highest settings. Some form of torture, the Scarecrow was sure.

God, had he really been inside that long? That the first thing he noticed was the difference in _air_ quality?

He didn't have long to ponder it though, as he continued to be pulled at breakneck speed across a nearly empty parking lot.

The alarm was still piercingly loud from out here, and it made Jonathan wonder how it was he heard the door behind them slam back open, and then the shouting of several guards.

But he did.

They were going to die.

For certain they were.

And though it might have been called a commendable attempt, the two of them remembered for _almost_ getting away, the Scarecrow could really find no comfort in that particular consolation.

It all seemed somehow… anticlimactic.

A shot rang out, a bullet ricocheting off a nearby vehicle.

Okay, maybe _anticlimactic_ wasn't the right word. This was all sorts of heavy. The two of them making an impossible, mad dash towards freedom, angry, gun totting asylum guards not twenty yards behind, aiming to kill.

Definitely not anticlimactic.

Jonathan felt suddenly faint.

Another shot, this one closer, the bullet just barely seeming to miss as it barreled through a truck windshield.

The Scarecrow heard someone scream, and only a moment later did he realize the scream had come from _himself_.

Suddenly he was being jerked sideways, so hard he thought his arm might tear loose from its joint, and then he was slammed backwards, against a car door.

The Joker was there now, kneeling in front of him, looking him in the face.

"Listen Scary, we're gonna have to _jump_ the fence." He said.

Jonathan blinked.

How the hell was it the lunatic seemed so _calm_? You'd never guess from the expression on his face that they were just seconds away from being mowed down by a hail storm of bullets. He was gazing at Jonathan with a kind of patient reassurance, from under his lashes, his head bowed slightly forward and his brows raised, like a parent trying dutifully to explain a complex situation to a child.

And then it registered to him what the Joker had just _said_, and if possible, Jonathan felt his eyes grow even wider.

"Are you out of your fucking _mind_?" He practically yelled. "That fence is _nine_ feet tall! It's got _barbed_ wire at the top and I don't know if you've _noticed_, but there's some very _pissed_ off men with guns behind us, and clearly, they aren't afraid to _use_ them!"

But it didn't seem the Joker was even listening to him, his expression remaining unmoved.

If he at all realized the precariousness of their situation, he wasn't showing it.

He looked from Jonathan to over his shoulder, to the fence which was just a few, short feet behind. And then he turned back, his eyes still placid.

He smiled. Actually _smiled_.

Jonathan thought about punching him.

"I'll go first Spooky." He said. "But you've got to be right be_hind_ me, otherwissse…"

"But…!" Jonathan started.

"_Other_wise…" The Joker cut him off. "I won't be able to pull you up over the _wire_."

The former psychiatrist stared at him in utter disbelief.

"We're going to die…" He said, as though the reality of it had only just hit him, his voice coming out almost a whisper.

And the Joker's grin broadened.

"Well of course…" He said.

And suddenly he stood. And then he was turning, and running for the fence.

And for a few seconds that seemed to stretch on forever, Jonathan could only sit there, watching, as though paralyzed by the spectacle of it all.

It was only when he saw the Joker latch on to it and begin to climb up that he realized, truly realized, that he was _actually_ going to do this.

The man was insane. Completely and totally _insane_.

The Joker was halfway up suddenly, and that's also when Jonathan realized that if he didn't move _now_, he was going to get left behind.

And maybe he was insane too. Maybe they'd been right about him this whole time, because all at once, he found himself running for the fence also, latching on to it and starting to climb.

There were more gunshots, more screaming.

He looked up and the Joker was at the top now, grasping down on the barbed wire, pulling himself over it, across it.

Jonathan could see it tearing at his hands, tearing at his clothes, at his legs, ripping him open.

But the Joker didn't stop. He didn't stop until he was over it completely, and then he turned, and the pain was evident on his face. But still he held to it, unrelentingly, _tightly_, staring down at the Scarecrow.

And then suddenly, one hand was uncurling itself from the razor wire, was reaching down, towards him. Jonathan could see the blood, could see the horrible lacerations along the Joker's palm and across his fingers.

And it occurred to him at once, all at once, that the Joker might win this. Might actually _win_ this.

Because the bastard was _tougher_ then that wire.

He was _meaner_. He was harder and more cruel.

More unyielding.

An inanimate object, something _dead_. And it couldn't take as much punishment as this man.

He had to make it, if only to understand how this could be. How someone like the Joker even _was_.

He _had _to.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the Joker's own, blood dripping on to his upturned face.

Almost there… almost there…

And then there was a shot.

/

**Gasp! Will our heroic villains make it? Well, they've made it this far, but I guess we'll have to wait to find out. And heroic villains? Isn't that an oxymoron? **

**Anyway, joking aside, I just want to give a huge shout out to all my readers and wonderful reviewers! You guys are awesome and I'm really glad you like this story enough to have stuck with it for so long now. And I hope you **_**continue**_** to stick around. Reviews are massively appreciated, so even those of you who I'm not able to respond to because you aren't signed in or whatever, just know I'm eternally grateful to you too for taking the time to tell me what you think. **

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the others. Let me know what you think, and again, thanks to everyone for giving my story your valuable time!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Okay guys, so, I rewrote the ending of this chapter a bit, since I realized I might have mishandled the Scarecrow's characterization a bit. **

**Let me just explain, it isn't at all my intention to make Jonathan seem weak or frail. Just obviously, when stood next to the Joker, who's an extremely intense character, and an extremely dangerous character, Jonathan isn't going to be foolish, and isn't going to engage, physically, with the bigger and stronger man. **_**If**_** he was going to fight the Joker, it would be with his brain, with his toxin, no doubt. **

**Let me know if you like it better. Sorry for the abrupt change!**

**Chapter 21:**

The bullet grazed along his upper right arm, just grazed, tearing open his uniform sleeve and peeling back layers of skin.

And Jonathan lost his hold, the pain flaring. He could feel his grip along the fencing loosen, feel himself falling backwards, the Joker staring down at him, moving further away.

And in that moment, Jonathan knew it was over, knew he wasn't going to make it. Knew any second now he would feel the harsh impact of the ground as he landed flat against it, on his back, the wind knocked from him. And if he was lucky, the guards wouldn't kill him, they'd only beat the living hell out of him before dragging him to the infirmary, or more likely, back to his cell, where they'd let him suffer a long while.

That's how it all played out in his mind, as he watched in seeming slow motion, the Joker move further away, a rush ripping down through his stomach, the sensation of falling.

That's what was going to happen.

But then there was that pain in his wrist again, the feeling of his bones being compressed, being crushed. He felt it before it even registered to him that the Joker had shifted forward, leaned down, and it was equally as surreal, as he occurred to him that suddenly the Joker was moving closer. Or was it himself moving closer? Being pulled up?

He got his answer when he felt a harsh tug, and all of the sound came rushing in on him, a cacophony of voices, shouting, screaming behind them, telling them to stop, to freeze, and then he heard the Joker's own voice, telling him to climb, grunting low as he strained to lift Jonathan's body up, over the barbed wire.

The pain as the front of his torso caught hold of that razor edged catastrophe was worse then anything he could have imagined, and he wondered in the back of his mind how it was the Joker hadn't screamed out in agony, sitting perched atop it as he was, _gripping_ to it tightly, unrelentingly, because the next sound to bombard his senses was that of his own voice, broken and shrill, crying out as his uniform and flesh was torn to shreds.

"Climb!" He again heard the Joker shout in his face, his usual nasal tone turning to gravel.

Clearly, the man wasn't playing.

Jonathan tried, at least, he thought he did, his feet kicking uselessly against the gating, trying to find some kind of hold, his wounded arm coming up, grabbing hold of the Joker's own.

But it seemed he wasn't getting anywhere, like suddenly they'd stopped moving.

And now the frustration was evident on the Joker's face.

Jonathan thought how strange it was the Joker had anything but pure terror in his expression, as he was sure his own features reflected.

The madman growled in annoyance, pulling his arm from the former psychiatrist's weak grip.

"This is gonna _hurt_." He said to the Scarecrow.

And before Jonathan had a chance to ask him what he meant, the Joker had reached down with the hand previously holding to the barbed wire, burying it in the collar of Jonathan's uniform, and proceeded to pull him up, not seeming too concerned with how the entire length of the Scarecrow's form dragged along the wire, not seeming to care as the Scarecrow screamed out, bloody murder, his voice a choked and gargled desperation.

The Joker had let go of the fence, _completely_ let go, and was falling backwards, _letting_himself fall backwards, holding to Jonathan's wrist and shirt, dragging him over with the momentum of gravity.

The pain filled Jonathan's mind. That's all he could focus on, all he could concentrate on, the nine foot fall not even registering as he prayed to whatever cruel force it was that governed the universe to make it stop, to kill all feeling in his body.

Jonathan had never been the type to pray.

But then, he'd never felt anything quite this horrific.

What was seconds seemed to stretch on for minutes, and the jolt of hitting the pavement finally shook him in to the present.

He realized he was lying on top of the Joker, and that it had been the madman who'd hit the ground, back first, the impact he himself felt greatly reduced, most of it having been absorbed already.

He stared dazedly down at the Joker, surprised, though he knew he really shouldn't have been, to see the lunatic still conscious, and not just that, fully_aware_, if the wideness of his eyes was any indication.

The Scarecrow found himself marveling over how it was the Joker wasn't gasping for breath, how it was he wasn't sputtering and choking as he tried to force the air back in to his lungs.

He didn't have long to wonder though, as suddenly the Joker was pushing him up by the shoulder's, off of him. And Jonathan's own pain came crashing back, to the forefront of his mind, and all he could do then was crumple, curl in on himself as another scream tore from his throat.

Somewhere in the back of his head, there was a voice telling him he was making a fool of himself, that he sounded like a complete idiot. But his body didn't seem to care about the humiliation of it all. It only cared that it had been torn open and was bleeding, if the rapidly spreading stains of red on the front of his uniform were any clue, profusely.

Somewhere in the periphery of his vision, he saw the Joker get to his feet.

And then his voice.

"Stop _cry_ing." He said. And when Jonathan looked up, he saw the front of the madman's uniform was just as torn, just as blood stained as his own, and he realized the Joker had been ripped open as badly as he had.

But the Joker wasn't screaming.

The Joker had barely a sign of discomfort on his face even, save for the slight furrowing of his brow and the way his lips curled only vaguely down at the corners.

He was holding his hand out to Jonathan, and again the Scarecrow saw the way his fingertips had been sliced wide, dripping blood on to the dirty concrete below them.

"We have to _go_."

Jonathan blinked at his hand, wanting nothing more then to just lay down where he was and disappear in to blackness.

His moment of hesitation seemed to agitate the Joker, and before he knew it, the lunatic had grabbed hold of his collar again and was yanking him to his feet.

"Follow me." He said, his voice heavy and unsympathetic.

And then Jonathan was watching him turn, watching him sprint off in the opposite direction, away from the asylum, and again he wondered how it was he was even walking, let alone _running_.

The sound of more screaming, and then gunfire, a bullet ricocheting off of the fence, and once more the Scarecrow was pulled back to the current situation.

The guards were coming, so close behind them, heading towards the gate entrance, opening it up electronically.

All this suffering just to be immediately recaptured and thrown back in the madhouse didn't, at that moment, seem quite appealing to the former psychiatrist. And it was with that realization, he also found the will in him, somehow, to go stumbling after the Joker, already some forty yards ahead.

/

The Joker had taken a turn in to an alleyway shortly after, and was now leading the two of them through a maze of the things, headed this way and that, seeming to duck in to one and out another at random, without thought.

Jonathan found himself having a world of difficulty keeping pace, his breathing harsh and ragged as his pain continued to consume him.

But the Joker wasn't slowing down, the only indication he was injured at all the steady trail of blood he left behind wherever he went.

Finally the Scarecrow could take no more, his frustration, the sinking feeling of desperation and hopelessness taking hold. It hadn't yet sunk in for him that they'd actually gotten _out_. That they'd _escaped_ Arkham Asylum.

But the lunatic seemed to be leading them astray, leading them no where, and Jonathan felt certain, if he didn't stop, his heart beating as hard as it was, that it might pump all of his blood from his veins, out through the lacerations along his skin. And that, surely, from this he would die.

"Whe… where are we… _going_?" He spit, staggering after the Joker, lagging some twenty feet behind. He never would have caught up, he thought, if the Joker hadn't paused briefly at the entrance of the second alley he'd dove in to, trying, apparently, to decide which direction was best.

As if it hardly mattered at this point, the former psychiatrist thought bitterly. The Joker seemed to have no plan, no place he was going.

The Joker didn't answer him, continuing forward, and Jonathan had no choice but to follow after him. It was either that or stop and collapse, like he knew his body wanted him to, and just wait to bleed out in some smelly, forgotten back alley of Gotham, probably not to be discovered for weeks, months, years! Maybe _never_.

It took him by surprise then when the Joker suddenly stopped, without warning of any kind and said…

"Here. Help me lift this _up_."

Jonathan stared blankly at him a long moment, completely lost as to what he was referring to.

And then the Joker gestured down, and as the Scarecrow's gaze moved to the spot, he saw the madman was standing beside a manhole.

His eyes went wide.

"You c-can't be s-serious!" He said. "T… the _s-sewer_?"

"We can't, uh, stay _above_ground right _now_." The Joker answered him. "They'll find us if we do."

Jonathan found it in him to actually scoff.

"I'm not… I'm not s-splashing around in this city's w-_waste_!"

The Joker smiled.

"You'll, uh, you'll be a _part_ of this city's _waste_ if you don't."

The former psychiatrist stared back at him, as if challenging him to show he wasn't joking. The look of smug amusement on the Joker's face wasn't helping him to believe it.

"… Isn't… i-isn't there anywhere… anywhere _else_?"

"No can _do_ kiddo." The Joker shook his head. "Unless you want to wind up back _therrre_…" He nodded in the direction of the asylum. "I suggest you help me."

His smirk widened to a grin.

"And besides, I know you aren't unfamiliaaar with Gotham's underground _sewer system_."

Jonathan looked back, incredulous a moment.

"What if…" He started. "What if the water gets in to our _wounds_? We'll… we'll be _infected_."

The Joker laughed.

"This isn't 28 Days _Later_ Johnny. And _any_way, it's either that, or we go back to Arkham, likely in a, uh, in a body bag, angry as those _guards_ sounded, and despondent as I know the po_lice_ will beee."

The Scarecrows eyes finally fell, resting on the filth ridden ground beneath him, and shook his head.

The Joker was right. Much as he hated to admit it, the Joker was right. If they stayed up here, they were going to be caught, and at this point, especially after all those people the Joker had killed, they would take the both of them dead or alive, whichever came easiest.

"Fine…" He began, limping over to where the Joker stood. "What do you want me t-to do?" He was beginning to feel faint.

"That's a _champ_!" The Joker crowed, socking him on the shoulder. And Jonathan winced in pain.

Again he questioned how it was the Joker had so much _energy_, how it was he didn't seem at all affected by the injuries he'd very obviously sustained.

But now wasn't the time for such questions, wasn't the time for anything but to get out of view.

"Here…" The Joker started, grabbing hold a piece of rebar which just _happened_ to be lying behind a nearby trashcan. It occurred very suddenly to Jonathan that the Joker must have done this before. "You use this to pry the lid up, and I'll, uh, _pull_ it free."

It all seemed slightly unreal to Jonathan as he took the bar of metal and did as he was instructed, jamming its end in to a hole along the lid's top and pressing down on the other end with all his weight. It took some effort, but finally the thing began to rise up, and the Joker grabbed hold of it, dragging it across the ground until half the opening beneath was revealed.

He held his hand out.

"Here…" He said, and Jonathan stared blankly at him.

The Joker rolled his eyes up.

"The _re_bar." He said, his voice low.

The Scarecrow blinked.

"… Oh." He said, handing it back to the madman, who took it and placed it back carefully from where he'd retrieved it.

And then he stood aside, smiling.

"You _first_, Johnny boy!"

/

The Joker dropped from the ladder half way down it, splashing in to the few inches of water beneath.

Jonathan, he'd thought, had taken his sweet time getting down it himself, actually _stepping_ from the thing on its last rung.

Still, as he looked at him now, his eyes scanning around the mostly dark corridor they found themselves in, he had to admit a kind of… respect for the former psychiatrist.

After all, he was still _here_. That was more then he could say for what most people would have achieved, given the situation they only just escaped.

Indeed, the Scarecrow was made of tougher stuff then he appeared, which the Joker had suspected, something he was sure Jonathan himself wasn't even really aware of. Which was why he'd helped him up when he'd fallen, back at Arkham, which was why he'd dragged him up those last, few feet, over the barbed wire, and why he hadn't yet ditched him.

Jonathan Crane, the Joker was sure, would be able to serve some use.

Smug and full of himself as he was. At least it was moderately deserved. Not like half the idiots he found himself forced to work with, those ones who actually were stupid enough to think they could somehow fool him.

Jonathan wasn't dense enough for something like that. Often the way towards assessing another person's intelligence was whether or not they could gage your own.

Oh, he knew Johnny wanted very much to study him, to analyze and dissect him, as any good psychiatrist would, wanted to see for himself if he really was_without fear_. And the Joker knew, eventually, ol' Johnny would indeed _try_. Not because he thought he could fool him, no, but because he simply would be unable to help himself. The Scarecrow was, after all, a compulsive sadist, and endlessly curious.

But the Joker wasn't worried. He would take it as it came.

In the meantime, he intended for the good doctor to share with him his connections.

All that, of course, would have to wait, until they could tend to their scraps and bruises. The Scarecrow looked as though he might faint, and the Joker smiled at the sight.

The cuts and lacerations were so shallow. Hardly anything to notice even.

He could tell Johnny had never experienced any _real_ pain.

At least, not the physical kind.

Mentally, emotionally, that was an entirely different story. Of that kind, the Joker could see Jonathan had suffered a great deal.

The Scarecrow was staring at him, his expression a mixture of both annoyance and fascination, and the Joker grinned his way.

"Come on." He said, moving past him.

"Where are we _going_?" Jonathan asked, his tone more suggestive of a demand.

"Just about a, uh, a _kilometer_ahead. I've got medical supplies. Since you seem so… _disturbed_ by your injuries."

"… Medical supplies?" The Scarecrow questioned, incredulous.

"Well ya _know_ Scary… in this line of work, it helps to be preparrred."

Jonathan kept himself from scoffing, refraining from pointing out the obvious fact that it was the Joker's own recklessness and unpredictability which had gotten them in to this predicament to begin with.

If the madman had simply stuck with his plan of manipulating Dr. Bartholomew in to helping them escape, though the Scarecrow had had serious doubts about the likelihood of such a plan working, it would have prevented them from sustaining the injuries they had and they wouldn't have been forced in to this… this _muck_just to evade capture!

The Joker glanced back at him, smirking, seeing the look of frustration and anger on Jonathan's face.

"You, uh, _coming_, or are ya just gonna _stand_ there and let yourself bleeed?"

The Scarecrow's lips twisted in to a frown, but the Joker hardly seemed to notice, his smile widening as he turned back forward and started down the tunnel.

He heard Jonathan breath out, exasperated, followed only a moment later by the former psychiatrist's reluctant steps, splashing in the water.

It would be another twenty minutes before they arrived to where the Joker was taking them, a concrete landing, about three feet up from the water they walked in, and a door framed in the brick wall beside it.

The door was metal and rusted in spots, looked as though it hadn't been seen or used in ages.

The Joker hauled himself up on to the landing, his canvassed shoes and the bottom of his pants completely soaked through with the sewers filth, and Jonathan's nose crinkled, knowing his would be the same.

The Scarecrow watched, not moving, as the Joker went for the door, taking hold of its handle and, with a strong tug, pulled it open.

It screeched loudly along its hinges as it moved, the sound echoing off the cavernous walls, and Jonathan couldn't help flinching at the invasive noise.

The Joker looked over his shoulder at him

"Coming?" He asked, before turning again and moving through the door.

Jonathan watched, frozen a moment, until he realized suddenly that the lunatic had disappeared in to the dark, that he could no longer see him.

A kind of chill ran through the former psychiatrist as he glanced about himself, and the oppressive silence which he only now seemed to take note of filled his ears.

Without further thought, he scampered on to the landing, the pain of his injuries making it difficult as he dragged himself up. And again the question of how the Joker had made it appear so effortless past through his mind, how it was he seemed to feel nothing at all.

He hurried through the door which the Joker had disappeared in to, and for a brief moment, found himself taken by panic as he was engulfed by pitch black.

He stumbled forward, groping blindly ahead.

And then his foot caught something, and he fell fast, a sharp gasp escaping his throat. His hands shot out to catch himself, a pained groan following as he impacted the ground.

There was a soft chuckling, coming from somewhere ahead, and Jonathan looked up, his eyes fighting to find something in the darkness.

"W-where are you?" He stuttered, trying to calm himself.

"_Right_… _here_…" He heard the Joker say.

The next moment, the Scarecrow's eyes filled with blinding light, and his lids closed in automatic response.

Silence followed, and slowly, Jonathan's eyes opened, trying to adjust to the brightness.

As he did, he made out the Joker, standing a few feet ahead of him, grinning down at him, clear amusement in his eyes.

"How ya like it down there Johnny?" He said.

And before the Scarecrow had even a chance to think of a biting response, the madman had turned from him, beginning towards the spaces back wall.

Jonathan's eyes followed him, to a line of dust ridden and broken shelving, containing various items, which the Joker promptly began to rifle through.

And it was then the former psychiatrist noticed the rest of the place, brick walls and a concrete floor, small with two light fixtures above, hung from the ceiling, one burnt out.

As his eyes scanned the corners, he saw a filthy looking mattress, lying flat on the ground, a thin looking blanket bunched up at its end and a stiff pillows at its head, covered, distinctive even from here, with smeared pant, white and black and red.

There were books scattered along the floor, Jonathan saw, and glancing at the title of one, he saw it read "The Old Man and the Sea".

In the corner opposite the mattress, there was a rickety looking table, also covered in dust, and papers, pens and pencils strewn across.

It dawned on him quickly then, this was a place of refuge for the Joker, a "hideout", as the media liked to call such things.

And the next thought to pass through his mind was a question. Wondering why it was the lunatic would reveal the place to him.

He'd obviously stayed here, presumably often; slept here.

His eyes moved back to where the Joker was still fooling around, mumbling to himself, his words indiscernible.

And a sudden fear gripped Jonathan, as it occurred to him his situation. That he really didn't know where he was, that he was trapped, underground, with the most dangerous and volatile criminal Gotham City had ever known.

That should he choose to, the Joker could very easily kill him, and the Scarecrow realized with dismay that there would be nothing he could do about it. There was no fighting back against the madman, not if what he'd seen him do to those guards back at Arkham was any indication of what, physically, he was capable of. And there was no place for him to run, not without becoming hopelessly lost, and very clearly the Joker knew these tunnels well.

He would find him, doubtless.

Trying hard to control the shaking in his voice, the Scarecrow forced himself to speak.

"What…" He paused, clearing his throat. "What are you doing?"

Some seconds past, the Joker seeming to ignore his question altogether, and Jonathan frowned, thinking he wasn't going to receive an answer.

But then, abruptly, the Joker turned, holding against his chest several items.

"I, uh, as_sume_ you know how to wrap woundsss?" He said, staring pointedly at the former psychiatrist.

Jonathan blinked back, saying nothing.

"Here." The Joker said, tossing something his way.

The Scarecrow caught it, just barely keeping it from hitting his face, and when he looked down at the item in his hand, he saw it was a bottle of peroxide. A moment later and the Joker tossed something else at him, these items landing on the ground, a few inches ahead, a roll of gauze and a small wash cloth.

Jonathan gazed up, staring at him.

But by then the Joker had looked away and was moving towards the mattress.

The Scarecrow watched as he lowered himself on to it, holding a second bottle of peroxide and roll of gauze against his chest, as well as a cloth of his own. He carried the items like a child might.

Quickly, he placed the things aside, then took hold the hem of his shirt, beginning to pull it up.

Jonathan looked on him in fascination, taking in the Joker's form as he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it away.

His entire torso was covered in blood, torn flesh visible beneath the red. And where blood wasn't smeared, he could see the deep and horrible bruising, blue and purple and black, older bruises fading yellow and green.

Jonathan knew immediately the source of that bruising.

Those Arkham orderlies, the one's who'd decided the Joker would be their new toy, their punching bag, to take out all of their frustrations and feelings of inadequacy on.

The sight of it infuriated Jonathan.

Not that he particularly _cared_ for the Joker. He even thought he might very well _hate_ the man, obnoxious as he was.

But that didn't change the fact that the Joker was indeed _brilliant_, indeed, a _superior_kind of being. One whom those imbecilic orderlies had no right to treat as they had. The fools! They'd had no idea what the Joker even _was_. They'd thought of him as just some… some _freak_, an object to gratify their own, sadistic tendencies, knowing all the while they never would have to pay for it.

At this thought the Scarecrow smiled.

That's what they'd _thought_anyway.

But very clearly, they _had_ paid for it.

The Joker should be _studied_, Jonathan thought, not used as a chew toy.

He continued to watch as the Joker pulled off his still wet shoes and then began to remove his pants, his expression giving no indication to whether or not he was experiencing any sort of discomfort. Though one only had to take in the state of his body to know he was.

His legs too were covered in blood and also deeply bruised.

The Scarecrow found the madman's body intriguing.

He was lean, bordering on skinny, not at all muscular, but sinewy, and very long. His chest was flat, his shoulder's broad, but not incredibly so.

The strongest looking part of him, Jonathan noted, appeared to be his calves, more thickly built then his arms or the rest of his upper half.

It wasn't the type of body one typically would associate with physical strength.

But looks were deceiving, because the Joker _was_ strong, Jonathan knew that.

It was strange, he thought, seeing the Joker like this, unclothed and bleeding, horribly battered, so obviously the victim of a brutal attack.

And yet, the Joker didn't at all seem victimized.

He didn't appear weak, or vulnerable, or pitiful in any way, despite his ravaged condition.

He appeared as invincible as ever, as forceful, nearly naked and so clearly wounded.

Watching him, the Scarecrow realized, it was all in the Joker's personality, all in the way he carried himself, conducted himself; in his energy, the absolute ceaselessness of it.

The Joker picked up the wash cloth and began to pour the bottle of peroxide on to it before bringing it to his open lacerations, cleaning them, washing the blood away.

The Scarecrow knew it must have burned terribly, but the Joker didn't flinch.

He glanced up at Jonathan, smirking.

"Like what you, uh, _see_, big boy?" He laughed quietly, and Jonathan frowned, looking away.

"Not hardly." He muttered.

"You _might_ want to get to your_self_." He heard the lunatic continue in that odd, disjointed way he had of speaking.

Silence fell between them a long moment.

The Scarecrow didn't particularly relish the idea of undressing in front of the Joker, knowing the madman's propensity for childish insults and expertise in making one feel both uncomfortable and embarrassed.

But, he supposed with annoyance, he didn't have much of a choice. His wounds needed tending, or there was risk of infection.

He glanced up one last time at the Joker, who by now had cleaned a large portion of the blood away from his chest and stomach, as well as his face, blood from the guards he'd bludgeoned. The light spattering of freckles he had across his nose and cheeks stood out under the too bright light from above, and Jonathan thought how odd a feature it was on the madman. Such an innocent, child-like feature.

His eyes roamed lower. And it was now the former psychiatrist noticed the numerous and ugly scars which covered the Joker, seemingly top to bottom, from his collarbone down to his abdomen, and below. None perhaps quite so gruesome as those which ruined his otherwise handsome face, but still, gnarled and savage enough.

Those scars on his face though, _those_ scars the Scarecrow found himself desperately wanting to ask the Joker about, which he _would_ have asked about, if he wasn't so certain the lunatic would have spun him a tall tale.

Once more, Jonathan found himself wondering, trying to understand how it was someone who'd obviously been through the worst kind of physical trauma was even still _alive_.

Like all things with the Joker, it seemed to defy logic.

He should be dead.

Maybe he wasn't human at all, the Scarecrow thought. Maybe he really _was_ a force, as so many thought, unstoppable, un-killable.

Jonathan shook his head.

But that was absurd.

The Joker was made of flesh and blood and bone, the same as he.

What had kept him alive was his _will_. And maybe it didn't seem so very unusual then. Didn't seem so strange.

When one had a will as the Joker had, it even made a kind of sense, that he'd survived things which most surely would have killed any other man.

The former psychiatrist blinked, only just noticing how wrapped up he'd become in his thoughts, suddenly, unwelcomingly aware of his own, physical pain. His body, doubtless, was in a state similar to the Joker's own, save for the horrendous bruising and deep scarring of days past.

Finally he shifted, pushing himself with effort to his feet and beginning to undress.

He prayed silently that the Joker would simply ignore him as he did so.

To Jonathan's mild surprise, he did. He supposed he had the fact the Joker was busy wrapping himself in gauze to thank for that.

As he pulled his shirt up over his head, dropping it to the ground and looked down upon his own, blood ridden torso, the Scarecrow actually felt queasy, a rush of dizziness crashing through his skull.

He'd never seen so much blood coming from _himself_ before.

He didn't much like it.

He kicked off his shoes and, with shaking hands, began to pull down his pants, his legs too covered in crimson and flayed open.

That had done it.

Jonathan couldn't help it as he turned, quickly, and doubled over, the bile rising quick from his stomach, forcing itself in to his throat, in to his mouth and then past his lips, heaving all over the floor.

Whooping laughter rose up from the Joker's corner, and the Scarecrow didn't even bother to turn and glare at him, feeling suddenly too weak as he collapsed down on to his knees, his arms shaking as he leaned forward on to them, the events of the last hour and a half finally catching up with him.

He was exhausted, and the sight of his own, profuse blood flow had pushed him over the edge in to realizing it.

"W-what's the _matter_Johnny?" The Joker managed between his hysterics. "I th-thought you were a _doctor_? Shouldn't you, ya know, be _used_ to this kind of, uh, _stuff_?"

Jonathan shook his head, feeling annoyance rise up in him.

"Not that kind of doctor…" He murmured, his voice weak.

"Ohhh, _that's_ right. I, uh, for_got_." The Joker went on. "You're a _head_ doc, more used to dealing innnn… chemicals and serumsss… not so used to the gritty_de_tails of the human bodyyy…"

Jonathan said nothing to that, and a moment later, he was again vomiting on to the floor.

And again the Joker was laughing, his mirth stretching on for nearly a minute as the Scarecrow slumped forward, the shaking in his limbs becoming more apparent.

"Hey…" The lunatic finally started, reigning his laughter in. "Hey, uh, _Scare_chum, you gonna dress your wounds or am I, uh, am I gonna have to do it _for_you?"

Jonathan shook his head, trying to will back his nausea.

"W-why are you doing this?" He asked.

The Joker's head tilted to the side.

"Doing _what_ Johnny?" He asked.

"_This_." The Scarecrow said, his voice sounding less forceful then he'd intended for it to. "Wh-why did you take me with you? Why are you helping me?"

And the Joker smiled.

"Like I said, I _like_ you. You and me Spooky, we can take over this town."

"Y-you honestly expect me to b-_believe_that?" The Scarecrow answered back, finally looking at him, obvious skepticism in his voice. "Seems to me you did a well enough job taking over this town _without_ me."

The Joker shrugged.

"You can belieeeve what you like." He started. "As I see it, the _reason_ doesn't really _mat_ter. I got you _out_ of Arkham, just like I said I would."

When he finally felt sure he wasn't going to hurl all over everything again, the pain by then having subsided to a dull throb, the former psychiatrist turned more fully towards the Joker, his eyes narrowing.

"You did." He agreed. "And I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop. What do you _want_Joker?"

Again the Joker shrugged, his mouth pulling in to a slight frown.

"Nothing." He said smoothly. "But I wouldn't mind you accompanying me on a little trip, once we get our, uh, _bearings_ here."

The suspicion only grew in Jonathan.

"A _trip_?"

The Joker nodded, a grin spreading across his face, his scars stretching upwards.

"I thought we might, uh, pay a former _colleague_ of yours a _visit_. Ya know, drop in on him, see how things are… _go_ing."

Realization dawned on the Scarecrow and his eyes went wide.

"You mean Dr. Bartholomew?"

"_Bingo_ Scary." The Joker said. "See, that's what I, uh, _like_ about you. You're a smart kid."

Jonathan blinked. He shouldn't be surprised, really. He should have known. The Joker wasn't going to let his psychiatrist off the hook so easily.

"When?" He asked.

"Tonight." The Joker was fast to answer.

The look across the Scarecrow's face was one of pure disbelief.

"T… _tonight_?" He started. "As in, _this_ night?"

The Joker nodded, still smiling.

"Are you out of your _mind_?" Jonathan spit. "The police will be _looking_ for us! Bartholomew's house will be one of the _first_places they suspect!"

"Even _better_!" The Joker said. "The _good_doctor won't really be ex_pecting_ us then, will he? The sur_prise_on his face is what I most look forward to."

Jonathan's mouth hung open, unable to really grasp what it was the Joker was saying.

They'd only _just_ gotten away from that God forsaken asylum with their _lives_, and now the lunatic wanted to go out there again, right to the very spot they were most likely to get caught!

"You're… you're crazy. You're really crazy." He said, his voice just above a whisper.

Like lightening, the Joker had gotten to his feet and closed the distance between them, his hand shooting out and burying in Jonathan's thick hair.

Quickly, he jerked the former psychiatrist up, and Jonathan cried out, pain burning through his scalp.

The Joker bent down, so that their faces were only inches apart.

"No.I'm._not_." He hissed, his voice suddenly low, suddenly deep, raspy and hard.

Gone from it was any amusement. Any mirth.

And for the first time, the Scarecrow felt completely sure his life were in danger.

His hands came up, gripping to the Joker's wrist.

"L-let me _go_ you son of a b…"

But the Joker didn't give him the chance to finish, shoving him away, on to the ground.

He turned from him, going back to the mattress, taking up his earlier discarded clothes.

"Hurry up and dress your wounds." He said flatly, his voice still low. "I have a few _stops_to make before we go house calling."

Jonathan said nothing, watching with wide and furious eyes as the Joker dressed, his back to him still.

He would by lying if he said the Joker's sudden flare of anger hadn't frightened him. It had. But the Scarecrow's own rage was now getting the better of that fear, and he found himself wanting nothing more then to fling himself at the clown, tear his own hair out and shove it down his fucking throat.

Rationality came then, the understanding that such an action would be foolish… and pointless.

It would bring him nothing but his own, further injury.

His eyes narrowed.

But that wasn't at all a resignation.

He would get the Joker back. He would make him _pay_ for that.

One way or another.

A moment more, and then he remembered the situation, remembered his state.

He turned, finding the bottle of peroxide, opening it up and pouring it on the cloth, beginning to clean his wounds.

He knew better then to argue now.

Knew he had better quash his hurt pride and feelings of humiliation, until later. Later, when he would test just how much the _seemingly_ unstoppable Joker could take.

/

**Hey everybody! Sorry for the long wait! Been trying to keep up with all my different stories.**

**So, Jonathan gets a little taste of the Joker's meanness in this chapter I guess. Really though, it was only a matter of time before it showed up, I suppose.**

**Don't worry though kiddies, I'll make sure the Scarecrow gets his own moments of badassery in the coming chapters!**

**I hope you enjoyed this one! Remember guys, reviews are highly appreciated and I'd love to hear from you!**

**And yes, that WAS a reference to Cillian Murphy in**_**28 Days Later**_**. So original, I know.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22:**

Jonathan thought of ditching the Joker about three blocks in to their trek across town, presumably to the house of Dr. Bartholomew.

They were going to get caught.

It was complete madness.

And complete stupidity.

On top of which was the unfortunate fact that, the Joker, to put it bluntly, was an asshole.

Jonathan could still feel himself seething at the lunatics' complete disregard, not just for his personal space, but his dismissive, disrespectful treatment in general.

The Joker had spoken to him as if he were actually _less_, as if he weren't worthy even of being in his presence.

He didn't know who the Joker thought he was talking to, but it certainly wasn't another one of his pathetic, schizophrenic lackeys.

He was a Doctor, for Christ's sake! And if the Joker was intent on playing mind games, well, he could play with the best of em'.

But he'd be _damned_ if he continued to tag along and play second fiddle to the clown. He was the first to do the whole "costumed criminal" thing, after all. And he'd be perfectly content continuing to do it on his own.

The Joker should be _thanking _him for setting the president!

But of course, the Joker was far too egotistical and self-centered to ever acknowledge anyone as having done something before him, and having done it _better_, damn it!

A fucking _clown_? How was that even scary? Oh, it wasn't as though he wasn't well versed in coulrophobia. But it had always seemed like such a ridiculous condition. One most generally suffered by little girls and woman who never got out of the house.

It was almost too much to bear.

But that settled it. He wasn't going to walk in to what amounted to a willing suicide.

He could easily find the Joker at some later point. The lunatic wasn't exactly what he would have called subtle. And being away from him was what he needed, if he at all planned on actually experimenting on and studying the buffoon. He would need to plan, and to prepare, before undertaking so dangerous a task.

So that settled it.

But before the Scarecrow could open his mouth to tell the Joker their little partnership had met its end, the madman stopped at the back of some dilapidated hole in the wall which looked like it might once have actually operated as something, like a restaurant or a retail shop or… something.

"I'll only be a minute Scary." The Joker said, reaching for the door handle. "You can, uh, come _in_, if you like."

"What are we doing here?" Jonathan asked, ignoring the Joker's invitation.

"Supplies." The Joker answered flatly.

"What, you mean like guns, weapons?"

The Joker shook his head.

"I wanna really, uh… _scare_ Barthy. _So_… a little, _cosmetic enhancement's_ in order, I think."

The Scarecrow regarded him a moment, his eyes narrowing.

"Are you talking about that _clown _makeup you wear?"

"Not a _clown_ Johnny…" the Joker waved a disapproving finger. "_Jokerrr_. There's a _difference_."

"Oh? And what _difference_ might that be?" Jonathan went on, not bothering to hide the agitation from his voice.

But the Joker didn't bother answering, turning the handle and stepping inside.

The former psychiatrist sighed, rolling his eyes up.

He didn't know why he was continuing to tag along.

He really didn't.

/

The Joker rummaged through a cardboard box, not bothering to turn from the task as he heard Jonathan come in behind him.

He knew he'd pissed the Scarecrow off something fierce. But of course, that had been the idea. _Dr_. Crane, so very sure of his superiority and all that. _No one_ should be allowed to touch him. Least of all some demented lunatic who he should be treating, not running around in the back alleys of Gotham with.

At least, that's what Johnny _thought_.

But, he supposed, if he was going to persuade the Scarecrow to stick around a while longer without using some kind of blunt force, he was going to have to humor him, at least marginally.

"Listen, uh…" he began, picking out a tube of white paint. "I know I got a little… _rough _with you back there…"

He heard Jonathan scoff, and he smiled.

"But no hard feelings, right Scare-Chum?"

He turned around, holding three tubes of paint.

Jonathan glared at him, his arms folded over his chest.

And then the former psychiatrist gave a shrug, turning his gaze to the side.

"It's fine." He said flatly. "You obviously harbor some deep seeded insecurity regarding the stability of your mental state. It's perfectly alright. I've dealt with a number of patients who've displayed similar reactions to being told they're _mad_."

The Joker stared back at him a long moment, saying nothing.

It was true that he became agitated whenever his sanity came in to question. But he was doubtful the Scarecrow understood the reason _why_.

The _world _was mad.

That was the thing.

People lived in a constant state of denial, blinding themselves, whether consciously or not, to the reality of what was around them. _Pretending_ everything was wonderful and then having the audacity to act shocked and appalled when it all went to hell.

And it _always _went to hell… eventually.

Insanity was defined an inability to differentiate between fantasy and reality, and as engaging in the same action repeatedly, but each time somehow expecting a different result.

It was everyone _else_ who was living in pure delusion, in a dream, and who somehow expected they wouldn't ever actually _die_ in the end.

They called him crazy because he accepted the way it was, accepted what was going to happen, and even embraced it. And they weren't particularly fond of how his doing so threatened the illusion of their safety, how he forced them to face the fragility and the falsity of the _ideals_ with which they'd based their entire lives; with which they'd built their society on.

It was that hypocrisy again, them accusing him of madness when it was really _they _who were mad.

Nothing made him quite so angry as that.

When people were so consumed by their own sense of self-worth that they couldn't see how full of _shit_ they actually were.

He wasn't doing anything but giving them back their own natures, letting them see what and who they _really_ were.

They really should be _thanking_ him, he thought.

"So, what?" He was snapped from his thoughts by the sound of Jonathan's voice. "Were you harassed by other children when you were younger? Did they tell you you were crazy? Or was it just a case of being institutionalized when you were a boy?"

For several seconds, the Joker stared blankly at him, silent. And then he shrugged, lowering himself to a sitting position on the floor, crossing his legs Indian style.

"Something like that." He said, undoing the cape to one of the tubes.

Jonathan regarded him a moment, his forehead creasing.

"Well which is it?" He asked, watching at the lunatic smeared white paint on to his fingers and began spreading it across his face.

Like some demented child.

"Which is what?" He asked.

"Were you teased or were you institutionalized?" Jonathan sighed, feeling exasperated.

And the Joker smirked.

"How's it look?" He asked, ignoring the Scarecrow's question, looking up at him pointedly.

The former psychiatrist stared at him gape-mouthed for a moment, before exhaling loudly and shaking his head.

"… Messy." He said.

The Joker shrugged.

"Well, no mirror." He answered, dropping the tube of white and taking up the black.

"Are you going to answer my question or not?" The Scarecrow spit.

"What question?" The Joker asked distantly, and Jonathan growled in frustration.

It became clear to him he wasn't going to get anywhere.

"Do you _ever_ tell the truth?" He fumed.

"… I tell the truth constantlyyy." The Joker grinned, wiping black paint over his left eye.

"Oh _really_?" The Scarecrow went on.

And the Joker nodded.

"How do you figure when everything that comes out of your mouth is a blatant _lie_?"

"First of all…" the Joker said, beginning to work on his right eye. "you don't know that I'm, uh, _lying_… Secondly, the heart of a matter needn't always be _gotten_ to through direct _means_."

Jonathan blinked, his mouth curling in to a frown.

"Are you saying you lie as a way of demonstrating the truth?"

The Joker's grin widened and he nodded vigorously.

"Ex_act_ly Straw Stick."

"Well that just doesn't even make _any_ sense." The Scarecrow went on, ignoring the childish name he'd just been called. "How can a lie demonstrate the truth?"

"Easy…" The Joker continued, spreading red paint on to his fingers now. "When it forces you to, uh, _act_ on instinct rather then conditioninnng."

Jonathan shook his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He muttered, and the Joker laughed.

"You'll figure it out, eventually."

The Scarecrow glared at him, watching in unhidden fascination as the Joker spread the red paint over his lips and up along his scars, highlighting them for all the world to see.

And without really thinking, he just asked…

"What happened to you?"

"Hmm?" The Joker looked up at him.

"Your face. What happened?"

"Ohhhh, I've been _wondering_ when you were going to _ask_!" The Joker replied excitedly.

Jonathan rolled his eyes, turning away.

"It's rather a glaring feature." He said. "You'll forgive my curiosity. I haven't asked because I'm certain you'll do nothing but feed me another of your tall tales."

The Joker chuckled lowly.

"Word gets arouuund, huh?"

"It most certainly does." The former psychiatrist answered.

And the Joker laughed again.

"I might. I might have slipped the truth in between those, uh, _tall tales_. You can't know."

"No I suppose I can't." The Scarecrow said quickly. "And I suppose it was useless asking. In fact Joker, I think I might have found your _one_ fear."

The Joker's brows shot up.

"Oh?" He questioned.

And Jonathan nodded.

"The thought of anyone knowing _anything_ about you scares you half to hell, doesn't it?"

This drew more laughter from the madman.

"Oh, ho, Johnny, if only it were that _simpllle_…"

The Scarecrow scoffed.

"I think it is."

And the Joker shook his head.

"No. No. It's _not_. I mean, what do I, uh, _care_ if my past is known or not?"

The former psychiatrist turned towards him again.

"It might make you seem vulnerable. It might make you seem _human_." He argued.

"Ahhh, but everyone already knows I _am_." The Joker chuckled.

"Hmm." Jonathan smirked. "The general perception seems to be you're more of a _force_ then a _man_. And your constant telling of different back stories seems to indicate you understand the power of mystique. As does your wearing that… makeup." He gestured around his face.

"People are afraid of what they can't explain." The Joker said, nodding. "I won't deny that. When they can't point to what it is that _made_ you…" he shrugged. "they get _scared_. And I won't deny I use it as a… _tactic_ of intimi_dation_. But at the end of the day… it really doesn't _matter_."

"And how's that?" The Scarecrow asked.

"Well they could know everything _about_ meee…" The Joker continued. "It wouldn't change who I am… Or what I _do_. They aren't, uh, aren't going to _get_ me by telling me I was once vulnerabllle…" He laughed. "I still _am_. The point _being_…" He looked at the Scarecrow from beneath his lashes. "I. don't. care."

"And how are you vulnerable, Joker?" The former psychiatrist asked, unable to conceal his curiosity, amazed he'd managed an open dialog with the lunatic at all.

"As any _living _creature is Johnny. I'm only, uh, _flesh and bone_. The same as _you_. Cut me and I bleeed, and all that." He waved a hand about.

Jonathan stepped closer.

"Then why don't you tell me what happened to you?" He asked pointedly. "If you aren't afraid?"

Jonathan noticed how the makeup made the Joker look older then he really was. How it almost exponentially enhanced his intimidation factor. Without it, he just looked like a handsome kid. Given, a handsome kid who'd had more then a rough time of it, but a kid nonetheless.

There was nothing particularly intimidating looking about him without the paint, and in a way, you more felt sorry for him. He appeared as a victim without it, not a victimizer. A _child_, one who'd suffered a horrible and violent attack.

Until you looked in his eyes, and you saw the absolute coldness behind them. The cruelty.

The Joker may have indeed suffered, may have been the target of a vicious assault. But Jonathan would never make the mistake of labeling him a victim.

He wasn't.

And he was certain the Joker never regarded himself as such either.

He was just a creature born in violence, who lived in violence… as nature itself was violent.

The fact he highlighted those scars on his face…

Most people would try to hide something like that, be embarrassed and ashamed, since usually it broadcast to the world how you'd been at another's mercy, how you'd been made a victim, how you'd been controlled and at some point totally helpless.

But the Joker drew attention to them, _made_ you notice them more then you normally would even, and it was like he was telling you how very brutal _he _was. Almost like a point of pride, he wasn't ashamed of the scars, he used them as a means of showing you who he was, just what it was you were dealing with.

Like a warning.

A man who's had his face sliced open, and he couldn't care less.

If he didn't care about himself, most certainly then, he didn't care about you.

"You really wanna know?" Jonathan heard the Joker ask.

And he looked up at him, still sitting on the floor.

The Scarecrow nodded.

"It comes in flashes Scare-Chum. Usually at night… when I'm all alone, and have only my thoughts to keep me companyyy…"

/

**Hey Guys! Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Next chapter we'll likely see some interaction with good ol' Dr. Bartholomew. Please leave reviews, as always. And thanks to all my readers!**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23:**

They sat lowered in the bushes across the street from Dr. Bartholomew's house, and from here they could see a single police officer, stationed outside the front door.

Jonathan was already regretting this. He could have left before, when the Joker had gone in to that hole in the wall where, apparently, he kept a back up supply of make-up. But then, the Joker had invited him in, and curiosity had gotten the better of him. And here he was now, because his almost insatiable desire to see fear born in the expressions of others had dictated such.

He glanced over at the Joker who, in his opinion, looked almost half-naked wearing that grease paint with no suit to match. Though he wasn't about to say so. They both still wore their Arkham issues, and, he imagined, both were sticking out like sore thumbs in the brightly colored, orange jumpsuits.

The Joker's tongue darted out, dragging over his lips, already beginning to wash away the color from having done it so many times. His eyes moved like lasers from left to right and then center, surveying the area.

"There's a, uh, _cop_ in that car." He said, tilting his head in its direction.

Jonathan rose up only slightly to see where it was the Joker was indicating, but all he saw was a black sedan, windows tinted, making it impossible to see in.

"How do you know?" He asked, confused.

"It's an unmarked _ve_hicle…" the madman answered. "You can tell from the, uh, _spotlight_ there, on the rearview mirrorrr."

Again Jonathan looked, this time seeing the light. Still though, there was no way to see inside the car, and he wasn't sure how the Joker had concluded there to be a police officer inside it.

As if reading his mind, the Joker again spoke up.

"The cop on the front porch keeps signaling to him. See?"

And now the Scarecrow's eyes drifted back to the officer at the houses front entrance.

"Give it a second." The Joker said.

So he did, and a moment later, the officer indeed made a hand gesture in the unmarked cars direction.

Jonathan sunk back down, the Joker still looking out over the bushes.

"So what, then, do you propose we do? Those officers are armed, I'm guessing."

The Joker gave a nod.

"They are."

"And we're not. I'm sure I don't have to point out to you how that exponentially reduces our chances against them." The Scarecrow couldn't keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Do you even have a _plan_?"

The Joker turned to look at him at last, smirking.

"I _always_ have a plan Scary."

Jonathan glared, his expression disbelieving.

"Oh, ho, ho." The Joker laughed. "It's _true_. It's how often I _change_ them which throws people _off_. One needs to be able to _improvise_, when, inevitably, things go _wrong_. "

/

So that's what the Joker had taken that raggedy looking trench coat for, Jonathan thought bitterly as he pushed down the sidewalk, his head bowed low and his hands stuffed inside its pockets.

Initially he'd thought maybe it was for some _practical _use, like, in case the Joker got _cold _or something. But of course, the Joker would never do anything for so _normal_ a reason, and the Scarecrow rolled his eyes at his own foolishness for having thought it were even possible.

This _plan_ was ridiculous, at best, and seemed more to rely on pure luck then anything else.

He wasn't even entirely sure why he'd agreed to go along with it.

Maybe it had something to do with the look the Joker had given him right after handing him the coat and telling him it was he who would be the one to take out the cop on the front stoop, or maybe it was the story he'd told him about the way he'd gotten those scars of his, being ambushed as a boy of fifteen and held down by a group of violent young men, men who he'd angered by stealing from; how gruesome and very terrifying it had sounded, the way he described them tearing his face open, said how he'd screamed and cried and begged them to stop.

Anyone who survived so brutal an attack, the Scarecrow realized he had no inclination to make angry.

Of course, Jonathan realized, there was no way of telling whether it was actually true or not.

He had a hard time imagining the Joker _ever_ in a position where he screamed or cried or pleaded for mercy. Very clearly, either way, the Joker had had _something _horrible happen to him, and he hadn't died. And that was enough information to know he wasn't the sort of person you piss off.

The Scarecrow thought it interesting, nonetheless, that the Joker would add in that detail, that he would allow himself to be seen in the light of victim like that, whether true or not.

The Joker had an ego, very obviously, but he didn't think himself a God among men, as so many of the mental patients Jonathan had dealt with in the past did.

The Joker would have been forgiven for thinking himself such though, given the utter terror he'd plunged this city in to without much more to back it then his own mind; knowing the right things to say, and when to say them.

The lunatic didn't need an army of trained assassins and mercenaries to get the job done, like Ra's, for example, had. The Joker had practically crushed Gotham's spirit just by understanding the nature of men, and using that understanding to make them turn on one another.

Cautiously, Jonathan glanced up. He was only about fifteen feet from the officer now, walking towards him. His eyes shifted briefly to his left.

The Joker was supposed to at some point make himself visible and adequately distract the policeman long enough for Jonathan to then hit him over the head with a rock, one which he now carried in the pocket of this coat, and take his gun.

When he'd asked the Joker how he was going to deal with the second cop, the Joker had only grinned and said…

"I'll handle it."

Jonathan could only pray the Joker hadn't played him for a fool and ran off. If that were the case, the Scarecrow thought with unease, he was surely about to be killed.

The officer on the front stoop had by now spotted him, and was watching him with mild suspicion, but hadn't yet made any moves beyond that.

Ten feet now, then eight…

"Come on Joker." Jonathan thought anxiously, his eyes again shifting to the side.

He kept walking forward.

If that sonofabitch didn't pop out like he was supposed to within the next five feet, the Scarecrow had no reservation whatsoever to just keep walking, right on past the policeman.

And just as the thought had passed through his mind, there was a loud crash, the sound of glass shattering, followed quickly by a shout of desperation.

The Scarecrow found himself looking over in the noises direction, his eyes going wide as he saw the unmarked vehicles driver side door come flying open, the policeman inside being pushed violently through it, on to the street below, the Joker crawling out after him, as wild and mad looking as ever.

And then there was movement to his right, and then more shouting, the officer from the front stoop leaping forward, eyes huge in shock and the unmistakable look of fear. He stumbled, then froze, watching in horror as the Joker fell upon his still struggling partner, who's voice rose in a broken, high pitched panic, screaming as the madman relieved him of his firearm and without hesitation, brought the butt of it down, across his temple, and then again, quieting any sounds of terrified protest.

And now the officer from the front stoop was reaching for his gun, beginning forward again and shouting, his voice shaking…

"F-Freeze!"

He didn't notice Jonathan now, didn't seem to even hear him as the Scarecrow stepped quickly behind, pulling the large rock from his pocket and raising it above his head.

The Joker looked up from his attack, his lips pulled in to a sickening grin, his yellowed teeth visible, even in the dark of the street, eyes flashing with mania.

The officer had unlatched his guns holster, had the weapon halfway out of it.

The Joker could have shot him right there, but he didn't move, just kept staring at him, smiling.

And then the Scarecrow brought the rock down, hard, against the back of the policeman's skull, a grotesque crack sounding, and then blood. So much blood.

The man dropped instantly.

Everything around him seemed to go quiet, Jonathan staring down in a trance, watching, unable to look away as the blood began to pool fast and thick beneath where the officer's head lay.

He thought suddenly how it looked more like oil leaking from a car, the blood black as it oozed outwards, now nearing his feet.

The Scarecrow stepped back, and then the trance was broken, a loud whooping noise bringing his eyes back up.

He saw the Joker, bounding towards him, the same grin from before still plastered to his face.

He came to a halt right beside the downed policeman.

"I think you, uh, you might have _killed_ him Johnny." He said, licking his lips, looking down at the officer with the curiosity one might expect from a dog, his head cocking to the side, eyes wide and alert.

Jonathan swallowed, noticing suddenly how dry his throat seemed, and without realizing it, the rock slipped from his fingers, falling with a dull thud against the pavement.

"I've never…" he began, his voice distant, once more looking at the blood as it continued to expand in a circle.

The Joker looked up at him, smiling again.

"What? _Killed _someone with your _bare_ hands?" He asked, and the Scarecrow's eyes flicked up to him.

"Heh. Different feeling, isn't it, to doing it from a distanccce?"

The Joker crouched down, hand reaching out and burying in the officer's hair, lifting his head up, looking in to his face.

"Makes it so much more _real_, when you can _feel _what it is that's left em'."

The man's eyes were wide open, but the life was gone from them completely.

Jonathan felt nausea rise up from the pit of his stomach at the way the blood had seeped under and now smeared against the policeman's cheek, covering one half of his face in a crimson mask.

The Joker nodded.

"Yup. Definitely dead." He uncurled his fingers from the man's hair, letting his head drop back to the ground with a bile-inducing smack before pushing himself upright.

He could see the shock, still in the Scarecrow's eyes.

"Aww, don't look so _stricken_ Scary." He said, mock-reassurance in his voice as he wrapped an arm around the shorter man's shoulders, pulling him in. "You'll get used to it, soon enough."

Jonathan blinked, still feeling queasy.

He wanted to shove the Joker off of him.

"Why didn't you shoot him?" He asked, anger in his voice. "You had a clear shot. You didn't need me to…"

"Ah, ah, ah." The Joker waved a finger. "A gun shot in _this_ neighborhood Johnny? You, uh, you should really know betterrr. Wouldn't want our fun to come to an end so _quickly_ now, would we?"

Jonathan thought about making some comment on how this wasn't really much fun at all, but refrained, knowing it would do nothing to change the Joker's perspective.

"You did good Straw-sack." The Joker gave him another squeeze. "I'm, uh, I'm _proud_ of ya." He chuckled, and the Scarecrow felt his entire frame tense.

He suddenly noticed the gun hanging lazily from the Joker's right hand, the one wrapped around his shoulders, and his eyes shifted to the unmarked vehicle.

"Where is he?" He asked, not bothering to hide the alarm from his voice.

The Joker's lips pursed, his tongue swiping out a moment later, running languidly over the scar running deep through his lower lip.

"Where's _who_?"

"The… the other policeman?" Jonathan said. "The one you…"

"Oh, he's back in his car, sitting prettyyy." The Joker cut him short.

Jonathan's face twisted in confusion.

"Did you ki…"

"Of course." The Joker again interrupted. "But, uh, everyone'll just think he's sleepinnng."

A moment of silence past, the Scarecrow realizing more and more that _this_ kind of business wasn't suited to him at all, wishing suddenly he'd just taken off when he had the chance.

This was too stark, he thought, too unstable.

He liked controlled environments, experiments and studies. He didn't like the volatility of what was going on now, the sinking feeling that any minute it might all just implode on itself seizing him hard.

He glanced up at the Joker, who was looking off down the street, seeming not to be paying him any attention at all, arm still hung lazily over Jonathan's shoulders.

Violence poured off him like it was in his sweat, in his blood.

This man was dangerous.

He was so, so dangerous.

Jonathan felt a chill run through him, realizing in what close proximity he was to the Joker, to someone so utterly uncaring, his apathy most apparent on himself, in his haggard, unkempt form, his own, poor condition.

What of a man who cares nothing for himself?

The Joker needed no excuse, no reason for what he was.

He just _was_.

An absolute.

Unwavering and unchangeable.

Such a man can never be stopped.

Such a man is no man at all.

But a force.

It didn't matter if the story the Joker had told him was true; it didn't matter whether he'd screamed and cried and begged for mercy.

Because what he was now was beyond that.

What he was now…

You could impale through him a knife, he wouldn't care.

If ever he had family or friends, or anyone loved, you could shoot them all in the head right before him, torture them to their demise, and what he was now…

All he would do is laugh.

Yes, Jonathan most definitely was starting to feel sick.

Suddenly he felt the Joker's arm unwrap from around him and he bent, hauling the dead officer up, over his shoulder.

"Grab his hat, will ya Scary?" He asked.

Jonathan blinked.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"I've got another job for ya Johnny." The Joker went on, moving towards Dr. Bartholomew's house. "You're gonna play Officer Dead-Weight here and get Barthy to open up that doooor."

The Scarecrow turned, walking after him, reaching down and taking up the fallen police hat on the way.

"What do you mean? And what do we need him for?"

"You ask too many questions Scare-Chum." The Joker said. "We don't, uh, _need_ him, per say, but we don't want to leave him lying out on the strrreet. Rememberrrr, unwanted attention and all that Johnny-boy."

"You didn't answer me first question." Jonathan pushed, somehow still struggling to keep up with the madman, despite him being the one carrying a whole, extra body.

"Just put the hat on." The Joker said. "I've gotten us this far, haven't I? You've really got some trust issues Scarecrow. I think maybe you need to, uh, to _work _on that."

Jonathan didn't bother pointing out the irony of a man who made chaos his business asking for another person's trust.

He felt like, after everything he'd already been through, he might like to actually make it _through _the night.

/

**Hey guys! I'm sorry it's been such a long time since I last updated. I've been busy with another story. I hope you guys still care enough about this one to keep reading. Please remember to leave reviews and tell me your thoughts on this chapter as, once again, it helps motivate me to keep going! And thanks once more to everyone who read and reviewed last chapter! You guys rock!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24:**

The Joker had told him to "improvise".

Jonathan had looked at him disbelievingly, not quite buying the idea the madman would allow for him to handle so delicate a task. But by then the Joker's attention was already elsewhere, humming quietly to himself as he rubbed the dead officers hair between his thumb and index finger, seemingly fascinated by it's texture.

Jonathan's nose had wrinkled in disgust at the sight.

But indeed the Joker seemed not the least bit concerned with whether the Scarecrow was up to the task, or whether he could actually _get_ them _inside_, the entire point of this mad venture.

Briefly, the former psychiatrist wondered if there was some twisted agenda on the Joker's part, hoping he would fail miserably so he could then laugh at him. But then, if that were to happen, their plans would be blown and Dr. Bartholomew would have to wait for another day. Jonathan didn't at all put it past the Joker, the idea he would ruin his own plans for nothing more then a good laugh. In fact, it seemed likely, but the thought had only made Jonathan more determined.

He was going to prove to the Joker that he wasn't the only one adept at mind games and the art of manipulation.

So he'd done as he was asked, he improvised, placing the policeman's cap atop his head, reaching out and knocking on the front door, turning his back to it, standing close to the peep hole so that only his head would be visible. He estimated he and the officer's heights to be roughly the same, and was sure in his ability to alter his voice enough to the point of being undetectable.

A few moments later, and Dr. Bartholomew's voice was heard calling nervously from the other side.

"W-what's going on out there?" He asked.

Jonathan's lips curled up in a perverse smile, hearing the fear in his former co-workers voice.

God, how he relished it.

"Sir…" he began urgently, raising his tone a pitch, and the Joker was grinning, having to cover his mouth to stifle his giggles. "there's been a disturbance, a block down. We have to move you, _now_."

"But… but _why_?" Bartholomew stammered, his voice now slightly trembling. "What's going on?"

"We aren't sure Sir." Jonathan continued. "But there's been shots fired and we believe the situation here's become unstable. We need to get you down to HQ."

There was silence from the other end a moment, hesitation.

"A-are you sure?" Bartholomew finally continued. "I… I really think I should stay here."

The Joker was having to bite down hard on his own hand now to keep his laughter from sounding, his eyes closing with his hysterics.

Johnny really _was _good at this.

The Scarecrow glanced at him a moment, smirking.

"Sir, we really can't stay here. The longer you wait, the more danger you place yourself in. _Please_ open up."

Jonathan himself was having a difficult time not laughing now.

They were so close.

Another pause, and then…

"… Give me a minute? Just to get my bag?"

Oh, this was almost _too_ easy.

"That's fine Sir. But _please_ hurry." Jonathan answered.

Again he glanced at the Joker, who still was giggling near uncontrollably.

"Impressed?" He whispered.

And the Joker only nodded, still laughing too hard to speak.

Less then a minute later, they heard Dr. Bartholomew's approaching footsteps, and then the sound of the lock being undone.

The moment the door was pulled open, the chain still in place, the Joker stepped forward, pushing Jonathan out of the way.

Bartholomew's eyes went wide, and he had only a moment to contemplate what he was seeing before the Joker lifted his leg up, kicking the door in violently, snapping the chain as though it were nothing and pushing the door wide.

The psychiatrist stumbled backwards, his legs giving way as fear consumed him, and he collapsed, his eyes growing wider still, crawling back pitifully as the Joker stepped inside, Jonathan following closely behind.

"ErrrAH!" The Joker made a show of effort as he swung the dead policeman's body forward before letting it drop to the floor.

"Guy coulda' done with a _di_et." He said, than shrugged. "But, uh, guess it doesn't _matter _now."

Jonathan closed the door behind them, locking it.

Bartholomew's eyes went to him, frantic.

"Y-you!" He stammered.

The Scarecrow smirked, taking the policeman's cap from his head.

"Hello, Edward." He said, stepping forward, standing just slightly back from and beside the Joker. "Been a while, has it not?"

"Don'tcha just _love _reunions?" The Joker smiled down at the doctor.

"Y… you'll n-never get away with this!" Bartholomew said. "N-neither of you will g…"

His voice trailed off as the Joker's eyes shifted up and he began to walk past him, further in to the house.

Jonathan looked to him.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"Ex_plor_iiing…" He said, not bothering to turn and look back.

"So you're just going to leave me he…"

But the Joker was already gone, turning a corner and disappearing from view.

Jonathan's face went flat, his arms falling to his side.

_Fine_, he thought, _if he wants to leave me to play with his toy…_

His eyes fell back to Bartholomew, who was looking at him again with growing fear.

And the Scarecrow smiled.

That's how he liked it.

Maybe this hadn't been such a bad idea, after all.

/

Picture frames fell from desks and dressers, diplomas and awards from the walls, various items scattered from drawers as the Joker riffled through it all, losing interest quickly as he moved from room to room.

He couldn't hear what was going on between Bartholomew and Scary, but he assumed Jonathan was by this point talking his "doctor" in to pissing himself.

And that was just fine by him.

The Joker was perfectly content at the moment, taking in the old man's life, as represented in his home's furnishings. People would be surprised, how much you could tell about them from things as simple as what kind of toothpaste they used, how they dressed, how they carried themselves when they walked, or sat, how many… heh… pictures they had of themselves on their walls, how many of their… awards. You could tell almost everything about a person just from looking at them, or talking to them a few, short minutes… if you were observant enough.

Most people weren't. Too concerned with themselves to ever really pay any mind to anyone else.

He already knew all there was to about Barthy, exuding an air of confidence, boasting his credentials, as if proud, pretending to _care_, even to _himself_, really to mask an underlying insecurity, fear of his own, sadistic nature, fear of being _found out_, all on top of a desire for power, for control and influence and standing. To be free of the rules and the bounds which kept him in check. Ohh, but too much of a _coward _to ever break those rules.

Bartholomew… Bartholomew was an easy read. Just like most people.

And apparently sexually frustrated…

The Joker smirked, pulling the drawer out fully, reaching in and picking out some triple X magazine, graphic shots of women's privates adorning the cover.

Of course, that wasn't any sort of surprise, considering how obsessive the man was with his work.

High priced hookers were the only girls Dr. Bartholomew would be seeing any action from, and as if to confirm it, the Joker let one of the magazines fall open, a card falling from its pages, drifting to the floor.

He bent to pick it up, bringing it close to his face.

A woman's name, printed in black. The madman's grin widened.

"Dominique Lux." He chuckled.

How droll.

A number was printed beneath the name.

Now there was an idea, the Joker thought, smile broadening even more.

He dropped the magazine dismissively, keeping the card and continuing on in his search through the house.

He bounded up a set of stairs, two at a time, drifting in and out of bedrooms and bathrooms and closets.

It was all so… boring. People's lives, the way they tried to organize them, control them, compartmentalize and streamline. Everything had to be just _so_, everything had to go the way they _wanted_, _planned_, _predicted_…

And if it didn't, they lost their minds, running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Never prepared because oh noooo, nothing could _ever _go wrong for _them_. It couldn't possibly.

What was the point in living, the Joker wondered, if you never took any sort of real _risk_? If you never had any… fun? Survival was just that, _survival_, and in the end, it meant nothing, since no one survived _death_. Doing all you could to ensure it was an utterly useless endeavor, and yet, almost everyone predicated their lives on that very goal.

Stupid.

People were stupid.

The Joker stared in to guest bedroom from the doorway, reaching out and flipping on the light switch. The space was unused, bed perfectly made, everything else clean and tidy. His lips curled up on one side, in to a smirk.

Presentation was everything.

Give the impression of preparedness, and everyone will think you so.

He shrugged, turning, heading back down the stares.

He wondered how Johnny was doing.

Stepping again in to the living area, he got his answer.

The Scarecrow was crouched down in front of Dr. Bartholomew, talking very quietly to him, and Bartholomew was leaned back, away from him, cowering, tears streaming down his face.

The Joker couldn't suppress his laughter, striding towards them.

"What did ya, uh, _do_ to him Johnny?" He asked, grinning.

Jonathan looked up at him, a smug smirk across his own face.

"Nothing much." he began, pushing himself up. "I was just explaining to the good doctor how very easily he could have avoided all this. Realizing ones mistakes, as I'm certain you know, can often lead to an emotional response."

"You make it sound so scien_tific_ Johnny." The Joker said, looking down at his former psychiatrist, he looking up at him with pure, unadulterated fear.

Jonathan stared blankly at him a moment.

"That's because it is." He said finally. "The amygdale of the brain is immensely affected when one…"

The Joker didn't let him finish, pushing him aside and taking his former position in front of Bartholomew, crouching down.

Apparently, he wasn't interested in talking the doctor in to tears, as Jonathan had. No, he was going to cause them through physical pain.

He reached out, burying his hand in Bartholomew's thinning hair and jerking him forward, up off his back.

The doctor cried out, his eyes huge with terror, his entire body trembling uncontrollably.

"P-p-please…" he sobbed, his voice shaking. "D-don't…"

"You're such a _coward_ Doc." The Joker spoke, his voice low and soft, his brows rising as though in surprise. "What happened to the assured man I knew from Arkhammm, _hmm_?"

"I-I-I'm sorry, I just… I-I'm sorry, I w-was j-just tt-trying to h-he-help y-y-you…"

The Joker's grip tightened, pulling the doctor closer still, until their faces were just inches apart.

"Noooooo, no, no, no, no. Don't do _that _Doc. Don't pretend you're a _good _person." He hissed.

"I-I w-wanted to h-help…" Bartholomew continued desperately.

"Why can't you be _honest_ about yourself?" The Joker's voice cooed, almost sweetly, now stroking his fingers through the psychiatrist's hair, gazing at him with pity. And the man looked up at him in petrified silence, lip quivering, a kind of despairing hope in his eyes.

Jonathan watched with a growing smile and feeling of giddiness rising up in his stomach.

Oh the Joker was good… he was so good.

At once the Joker's fingers again curled tight, now digging in to Bartholomew's scalp. The doctor whimpered loudly.

"I'd have liked you _so. much. more_. if you'd just been honest about yourself!" The lunatic's voice turned abruptly to gravel, loud and deep and harsh, jerking the doctors head forward with his words, and Bartholomew coward, his eyes closing, more whimpering as his hands came up to cover his increasingly wet face.

Jonathan had to bite his lip to keep from giggling.

The Joker glared at his former psychiatrist, his eyes blazing with disgust. And suddenly he pushed the man away, so that he splayed out on to the floor, against his back.

"I d-didin't mean… I didn't m-mean…" Bartholomew continued to blubber. "I wanted to h-help…"

For a moment the Joker said nothing, just staring down at him, his face twisted in to a frown.

And then, suddenly, he smiled.

"Okay Doc." He said, and Jonathan looked up from his transfixed stare on Bartholomew, wondering at the suddenly chipper tone of the madman's voice.

Bartholomew blinked, sniffling, his hand coming up and wiping at his nose.

"O… okay?" He stammered.

The Joker nodded.

"Sure. You, uh, _insist _you're a good person. Have only your patient's _best interests_ at heart." He smiled crookedly. "But you gotta, uh, you gotta _prove_ it Doc. You gotta _prove_ you're a _good person_." Again his voice dropped low.

"I… I-I don't u-understand, how…?"

"Looky what I found Doc, when I was, uh, going through some of your thingsss…" the Joker stood, waving the card he'd come across through the air.

Jonathan's eyes went to it, trying to make it out.

"W… where did you g-get that?" Bartholomew sounded shocked.

"Your, uh, your _collection_ Barthy. Right where you _left_ it."

The man looked stricken, the color seeming to drain further from his face.

Embarrassment on top of fear, Jonathan mused silently, enjoying this maybe a little too much. Of course, embarrassment was just another _type_ of fear, he quickly corrected.

His eyes moved to the Joker, who was now staring intently at the card in his hand.

He wondered if there were anything which embarrassed the madman? And maybe that's where his fear lay? He shook his head. It seemed highly improbable. He'd never encountered anyone so completely shameless and unabashed in his life.

He doubted there was anything which would _embarrass _him.

Abruptly the Joker threw the card at Bartholomew's face, the thing hitting with its edge under the doctors right eye.

He flinched.

"Call her." The Joker said.

"W-what?"

"Call her." He repeated flatly.

"B-but… but w-why?" Bartholomew stuttered.

"So you can invite her overrr." The Joker answered, as though it should be obvious.

The psychiatrist stared blankly.

Jonathan could see already where this was going, and a mixture of both excitement and dread began to rise up in the pit of his stomach.

"Ya see Doc…" the Joker began when it was clear the doctor wasn't following, crouching down to eye level again. "You're going to invite her overrr and theeen… then she's going to die." His tone was now airy, mocking.

Bartholomew's eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open, and he began to stutter, stupidly.

"W-w-what d-do you m-mean?"

The Joker sighed, sounding exasperated, his eyes rolling up.

"What's it sound like bucko?" He asked. "You call your little, uh, boy toyyy, and then you get to waaatch as me and Johnny here _kill her_."

Bartholomew's look of confusion was fast replaced by the horror of before.

"You kill her Joker." Jonathan suddenly cut in. "I've no use for the blood and gore."

But the Joker didn't respond, his attention focused on his former psychiatrist, Bartholomew's eyes darting rapidly from the Scarecrow and back again to the lunatic before him.

"I-I-I w-won't…" he sputtered. "I w-won't al-llow it. I w-won't be p-party to this s-sickness!"

The Joker only smirked.

"Oh, I think you will." He said.

He reached out suddenly, taking hold of Bartholomew's left hand in his own, slipping his grip to the doctors fingers, massaging them gently.

"See, if you _dooon't_…" and his eyes moved up to the psychiatrists, looking at him hard. "I'm going to snap each of your fingers. I don't think you'd like that Barthy. I don't think you'd like it one bit."

For a moment, actual defiance flashed in the doctors eyes, and he began.

"You're insane if you think that will…"

He was cut short by his own, blood-curdling screams as the Joker took vicious hold of his middle finger and snapped it all the way back, against it's natural direction.

Jonathan's face twisted in disgust at the sound of the bone breaking, his arms folding over his chest as he watched, fascinated.

Bartholomew's screams trailed off in to labored, haggard breaths, a profuse sweat having already broken out along his forehead, his face lined in agony.

"Ghaa, gahh…"

The Joker looked at him disinterestedly.

"Caaall her." He repeated, taking hold of the psychiatrists ring finger now.

"… I… I… w-w… won…"

Another, nauseating crunch, more screams, louder even then the last, tears springing and falling rapidly from Bartholomew's eyes, spit now gathering across his lower lip, drizzling down on to the carpet.

"Call her Doc." The Joker continued, seemingly completely unaffected by the man's tortured sobs and ear splitting cries. "Unless of course you want me to crush _all_ your fingers?" He leaned in close, whispering. "Crush em' so bad you won't be able to hold anything ever again Doc. Not even a _pen_." And then he leaned back. "Think how that'll affect your _job _Barthy."

The psychiatrist stared back at him, almost blinded now by how thick the tears were in his eyes.

"P-please, s-stop th-thi…"

"Johnny, you see that paperweight over there?" The Joker interrupted, tilting his head towards a cluttered desk at the rooms far, left end.

The Scarecrow turned, spotting the object.

"Mmm." He nodded.

"Go get it for me, won't ya?"

Normally, Jonathan would have been agitated at any sort of command being shot his way. He was, after all, decidedly more used to _giving _the orders. But he couldn't really bring himself to care at the moment, too consumed by the Joker's torture of his once smug, former co-worker, and by the unhidden fear in his face.

He turned wordlessly, heading for the desk and taking up the solid glass cube.

Bartholomew was shaking again, more pronouncedly then before, and the Scarecrow figured it was both a combination of emotional and physical distress as he walked back to them, handing the heavy object to the Joker.

The madman took it without really bringing his eyes from the doctor, and Bartholomew watched the paperweight as he held it in his right hand.

"P-please, God, d-don't…"

But the Joker didn't respond to his supplications, instead wrenching the psychiatrists arm forward and down, pinning his hand flat to the floor and bringing the glass cube up.

"N-NO!" Bartholomew screamed, free arm flailing, going clumsily to strike the Joker, to try and stop him.

The Joker saw the action before the blow was anywhere close to landing, knocking the wild limb aside and backhanding Bartholomew across the face, paperweight still held.

Blood splattered forth from the doctor's mouth, and he fell backwards, hung halfway over, his other arm still held outstretched and pinned to the floor.

He moaned in pain, eyes fluttering rapidly, disoriented from the blow.

And without warning, the Joker took the glass cube and smashed it down against the psychiatrists index finger, crushing it, tearing the skin, stripping it straight to the mutilated bone.

Bartholomew's shrieks of pain were so splitting now that Jonathan had to cover his ears, flinching at the intrusive noise.

The Joker didn't react.

"Call her Doc. Tell her to come overrr." He hissed quietly. "Or your hands will be as useless as your claims of morrralityyy."

Through broken and gargled sobs, Dr. Bartholomew told them his phone was in his briefcase, fallen by the door, and it was the Joker this time who stood and retrieved the item, striding back to the crumpled man on the floor and tossing the mobile down at him.

"Make sure you sound con_vincing_ Doc." He said, his voice again cheerful. "Let her know you really _need _her tonight."


End file.
